


Siloam

by addie-cake (MonkeyVenom)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Forced Marriage, Forced Relationship, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medieval Medicine, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Multi, Pregnancy, Pregnant Alec Lightwood, Pregnant Clary Fray, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, but not actually i promise, the downworlders are good people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-14 04:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeyVenom/pseuds/addie-cake
Summary: After Valentine betrays his home, King Asmodeus and his army conquer the kingdom of Idris, taking the citizens captive and presenting them to the members of his court; the fertile prisoners are subjected to treatments and given as mates, while the infertile citizens of Idris are forced into servitude. Asmodeus grants his son, Magnus, the greatest gain of all—the heir to Idris, Alexander. Despite their initial distrust of each other, Magnus and Alec agree to a political marriage in the hopes of securing the safety and future of both kingdoms.





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m going to need you to stay still during the injections; there’ll be a total of three—two on both sides of your abdomen, and one right here,” the warlock said, her hand ghosting over the expanse of Isabelle’s thigh. Squeezing her eyes shut, Isabelle tensed and waited for the prick of the needle. She let out an involuntary gasp when the first shot came, and she turned her head to glare at the acting doctor. Unfazed by the young woman’s ire, the warlock simply prepared another needle. “You can hate me all you want, but the treatments are entirely necessary.”

“So you can just abuse us all you want?”

For the briefest of moments, the warlock paused, and Isabelle noticed the light tremor of her hand as she worked. She was a pretty woman, if not broken-down looking, with straight brown hair and a round face, but she hardened quickly, tapping the left side of Isabelle’s stomach and sliding the needle under the skin. “So you’re abused a little less.” She got the third shot ready, then injected it. “Done. You can sit up now.”

Despite her best wishes not to, Isabelle saw no reason to do otherwise, and she lifted herself upward, immediately regretting the action. Her world spun, and she raised her hand to her head to fight the sensation.

“The injections work quickly; you may experience some dizziness, some nausea, maybe even some sweating. All completely normal.” The warlock walked to a cabinet and pulled out a thin blanket; she laid it over a table on the other side of the room, then made her way to the door. Opening it, she called, “You can send me the next one.”

Isabelle brought her knees up to her chest, lowering her head to fight off the first wave of nausea. “Am I going to be sick?” she muttered softly, no venom lost, even in her sudden state of weakness.

“No, it just feels that way,” the other woman answered. She opened the door when she heard two sharp knocks, ushering in a guard and his prisoner.

Eyes widening, Isabelle attempted to lower herself from the table but lost her footing, crashing to the ground. The warlock turned, half in a panic, putting her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders. “You have to be careful,” she gently warned. With a strength that Isabelle did not expect, the warlock pulled her up and maneuvered her back to the table. “Try to rest; you’ll need it.”

“Alec—” Isabelle muttered, reluctantly lying back against the hard wood. She kept her eyes trained toward the entrance of the door, meeting her brother’s steely gaze.

He was in front of the guard, hands behind his back, and head held high. To Isabelle’s relief, he seemed unharmed, but the young woman knew what was coming next, and she struggled to keep her demeanor level.

“I’m fine, Izzy,” he assured her, then looked up at the warlock, who directed the guard to the other table.

“You can lie here,” she said.

Not wanting to start a fight, the young man relented. Once the guard left, he let out a long breath. It was then that Isabelle noticed that, despite her brother’s terrible pride, he seemed scared, or uncertain, at least. He didn’t seem much like a prince; instead, Alexander looked like the captive that he was now.

Isabelle knew she looked just the same.

To her credit, the warlock was not unkind. She moved swiftly, grabbing three needles and bottles of the same serum she injected into Isabelle. Without even looking at the young man, she said, “Remove your clothes.”

“Why?” Alec asked, and his gaze flicked to his sister. “What did you do?” As he questioned her, though, he still acquiesced, and Isabelle had to look away, for her brother’s privacy. Once he was finished, the warlock walked over and dropped another blanket on the table, and Alec grabbed it, using it to cover himself.

“Weren’t you all informed what you’ll be here for?” She prepared a needle, and Isabelle’s stomach flopped again. She was beginning to doubt the warlock when she claimed that she wouldn’t be sick.

The young man raised an eyebrow, confused. “We _were_ , but I can’t…” he trailed off.

“You can, with this,” she said, raising the needle in the air. “These injections drastically increase your fertility, and in your case—” she examined his now-exposed abdomen, then nodded, “your body will become far more receptive, just like your sister. I’m going to need you to stay still during the injections; there’ll be a total of three—two on both sides of your abdomen, and one right here,” she repeated, and like with Isabelle, she lifted the blanket and placed a hand on the young man’s thigh.

Alec was quiet during the injections, only flinching during the first shot. He looked over at Isabelle after the last one and eventually groaned softly.

“I wouldn’t try moving,” Isabelle bitterly mumbled.

The warlock began to prepare another set of needles. “You may experience some dizziness, some nausea, maybe even some sweating. All completely normal.”

“Why do you do that?” the younger woman asked. “You just keep repeating yourself.”

Not missing a beat, the warlock replied, “It’s my responsibility to administer fertility treatments to prisoners. I’ve done this many times. You can get dressed now.”

“What’s your name?” Alec asked while he pulled on his clothes, and Isabelle almost laughed at her brother’s nerve. This was a defense tactic of his, one that all members of royalty were taught at an early age. Even if they weren’t entirely interested in the identity of this woman, it was undeniably wise for them to build a better rapport with their captor. Even so, to attempt this level of familiarity, when neither of them had any sort of authority, could be risky.

Surprisingly, the warlock actually answered. “Dorothea.”

“Dorothea,” Isabelle began, “where are we?”

Dorothea seemed to have no problem in pursuing a conversation with the prisoners. “You’re in Edom.”

“Asmodeus’s kingdom,” Alec breathed.

Nodding, the warlock took a moment to relax, sitting down in a chair beside the cabinet. She looked incredibly tired, and if she hadn’t just sealed both her own and her brother’s fates, Isabelle might have felt sorry for her. “The king wanted his prisoners to be part of an exchange program with his court. In exchange for their loyalty, he wants to provide them with pleasures. And heirs,” Dorothea added, standing back up. She took a long look at the siblings, then directed her eye-line toward Isabelle. “The side effects should have subsided for the most part by now, and your brother should recover soon, as well. Over the course of the next few weeks, you both will continue to receive treatments. For now, you can follow the guards to meet the court.”

Isabelle didn’t move. She stayed put, until the doors opened, and one of the guards heaved her off the table. He placed her on the ground, and she immediately swayed, gritting her teeth when her legs were swept from under her and she was lifted into the air by the same man.

“She is rather small,” Dorothea muttered under her breath.

Alec swung his legs over the table, and while he did stumble slightly, the young man managed to maintain his balance. He followed Isabelle and the guards outside Dorothea’s room, letting them lead him to a large, open space.

The young man waited until Isabelle was set down, and he wrapped an arm across her shoulders. She froze, muscles tightening, but didn’t move away. Alec made certain to keep his protective stance over his sister, particularly when a large door flew open, and a group of men strode in, shoes clicking against the floor.

Isabelle frowned, watching them all form a single-file line. Only a few of the men looked particularly smug; most looked uncomfortable, but the former princess doubted that any of them could be more bothered than she or her brother were. Once all the men had settled in their places, they all turned their heads back to the door.

In slow, easy movements, a slender man with a sharp face, dressed in a black tunic and pants and shielded by heavy armor, strolled into the room and took his place in the center of it. Isabelle only studied him for the briefest of moments before turning her attention to the rest of the group. She could easily tell which members of the court were gifted with magic and which ones were not, but one man in particular stood out to her.

Valentine. With a snarl, Isabelle made to move forward, but Alec’s strong arm stopped her. His jaw was set in a tight line, but it was obvious that he was just as enraged as she. The young man pulled his sister back, then turned his chin up. “Of course a traitor would be present in his court.”

The man in question smirked, then shrugged. He said nothing, and Isabelle suspected that all the men were instructed to be silent until their king spoke. She returned her gaze to the man who entered the room last; he had to be Asmodeus, the king. While the man did not wear a crown and did not look particularly threatening, he simply seemed to carry the confidence of a ruler. And when he opened his mouth to speak, Isabelle was certain of her suspicions.

“These are the esteemed prisoners, then,” Asmodeus spoke, eyes gliding over the siblings. Alec’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move otherwise. Wishing to follow her brother’s example, Isabelle lifted her head in defiance, straightening her posture. “You were right, Valentine; they’re not lacking in appearance.” He raised his eyebrows when the door opened again, and another guard brought forth a young man with a split lip and blond hair.

Until now, Alec had been composed and unsurprisingly resolute. At the sight of Jace, however, his gaze softened, and he nearly moved from his spot to check his brother. “Jace—” he breathed, twinges of both relief and frustration coating his voice. Isabelle felt the same; originally, she and Alec thought their brother was dead along with the majority of their kingdom. Now, as he stood beside him, she was overcome with joy that she could see her brother quite alive. Her initial happiness soon morphed into despair, however, once she remembered where they were and who they were in front of.

Behind Jace, guards dragged in more prisoners, and Isabelle turned her head so that she couldn’t see them. All those captives—she knew them. They were citizens of Idris, servants of the castle, now doomed to subjugation to Asmodeus’s kingdom. She felt guilty, hoping that her brothers were exempt from this particular emotion.

“That seems to be all the royal family, even the extended parts, and their court,” Asmodeus all but purred. “I trust you all are aware as to why you stand before my court and myself, yes?”

Unsure of whether to nod or ignore the king, Isabelle glanced over at Alec; Jace followed suit. The former prince did nothing, only glared.

Asmodeus smiled. “What a haughty young man you are. Are you so prideful that you cannot even recognize your position here?”

Again, Alec remained motionless. The king chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t mind silence, so long as you all know your place. Now, as promised, Valentine Morgenstern will be the first to choose his prisoner.”

Valentine was still smiling, and he chanced a look to the young blond man next to him. Practically vibrating with what appeared to be excitement, Valentine’s companion scanned the expanse of captives, then grinned. He whispered something to Valentine, and the older man nodded. “You’re right, Jonathan; we do need a companion for your little sister.”

“She might like the princess, then—”

Isabelle flinched.

“—No, no. I need someone strong, someone who can assist me,” Valentine interrupted. He hungrily took in the sight of each person, as if mentally contemplating the strengths and weaknesses of each man and woman. All Isabelle could think was that Valentine was a traitor, and a coward; he had been trusted in Idris—revered, even, but he had so easily betrayed his kingdom for whatever favors Asmodeus had promised.

And, to her chagrin, it appeared as if Valentine had chosen the stronger side.

Valentine’s gaze eventually settled on Jace, and the blond stiffened. “He’ll do. I choose Jace.” It seemed far more perverse, that he knew his choice’s name, but Jace quickly regained his composure. He put a hand on Alec’s arm to keep the taller man from protesting, and stepped forward without a visible hint of fear.

“Of course,” Asmodeus agreed, and the doors opened for Valentine to lead his prisoner outside the room. Isabelle and Alec kept their eyes trained on their brother, both deflating once he was out of sight. “After Valentine, of course, is my progeny. Magnus,” he requested, and a young-looking man with dark hair and brown eyes looked up. He seemed older than Jonathan had but far less eager to choose a captive.

He had magic. It was easy for Isabelle to see that he was a warlock, in the way that he carried himself. While Magnus did not appear as broken-down as Dorothea had, he still had a reserved quality to him, as if he had something to hold back.

“You can come back to me,” Magnus said with a wave of his hand. He wasn’t uncomfortable, necessarily, but he certainly wasn’t eager, either. He kept his gaze away from the captives, but Isabelle caught the occasional glance he sent to one of the prisoners.

Alec was carefully and suspiciously watching him, and Magnus occasionally met the stare. He clearly wasn’t afraid of Alec, instead seeming curious of the defiant young man. If Isabelle weren’t mistaken, though, Magnus wanted to seem as disinterested in any of them as possible, but his greedy gaze betrayed him.

Sighing, Asmodeus finally looked over at his son. “You have to choose one.”

Magnus waited for the king to back down. When he didn’t, he frowned. “None of them are appealing,” he eventually lied. “Perhaps I’ll just wait for the newest batch of prisoners. They _will_ inevitably come, after all.”

He couldn’t have been uninterested in them, Isabelle figured, and especially in Alec, because Magnus appeared to be the type of person that saw what he wanted and received it in a timely manner. Yet, in front of the captives of Idris, he hesitated, almost like he felt a certain wrongness from hand-picking a personal slave. But, the princess mentally argued, that couldn’t be it. Perhaps he was simply that particular.

Before he could begin to lose his patience, Asmodeus tore his eyes away from his son. “Then I’ll pick one for you. As my heir, it only seems right to me that you should continue my legacy with only the best blood. And as the crown-prince of Edom, I believe it best that you do so with the heir-apparent of our conquered kingdom. Yes?”

Unable to stop herself, Isabelle growled, “Don’t you _dare_ touch him!” She found herself unaffected by the small gasp that erupted from the rest of the prisoners, only focusing on Asmodeus.

“Izzy—” Alec began.

“Or?” the king nonchalantly replied.

She wanted to say that she would kill him, kill them all, but Isabelle knew without even thinking that she was incapable of doing anything. Deflating, she could only grip onto her brother’s shirt, fingers tightening when he tried to disentangle her.

Nodding, Asmodeus again looked at Magnus. “Answer me honestly, Magnus. Do you want him?”

The warlock shook his head, but even as he did so, Isabelle could sense his deceit. As she expected, Magnus shrank under his father’s steady glare, and finally gave a sharp nod. “But I don’t need him—”

“This kingdom requires an heir. There will be no arguments.”

Isabelle might have argued again, but Alec gently pulled her away from himself, and he stepped forward without being prompted. He glanced back at his sister, face relaxing into a comforting smile. “I’ll be fine, Izzy. Promise me you’ll be.” She hesitated but inclined her head.

Asmodeus smiled, waving his hand so that Magnus could approach his choice. “I’m impressed,” the king complimented, his voice sickly sweet, and Isabelle once again tried to reach for her brother. He took another step away from her.

Magnus did not yet meet Alexander’s stare, but he didn’t shy away, as he did with his father. Instead, he made his way to the taller man, holding out an arm in a gesture to allow Alec to walk ahead of him. “After you,” he said, his voice smooth, and he offered a smile, one that was not entirely unkind. Unsurprisingly, Alec did not return the favor, but he did willingly walk ahead of the warlock.

Once they were outside the room, Isabelle’s somewhat composed façade crumbled. She didn’t cry, would not allow herself such a weakness, but her shoulders fell, and the princess suddenly felt as if her legs could not possibly hold her any longer. In the back of her mind, though, she knew that the people of her kingdom were still watching her. Although Isabelle wanted nothing more than to collapse, she eventually steeled herself and squared her shoulders. Alec had expected her to be strong, and the young woman resolved to be.

The remainder of Asmodeus’s court began to choose their prisoners, and Isabelle distinctly noticed that everyone’s eyes passed over her. She stood uncomfortably, waiting for one of the men to pick her out, yet the kingdom of Idris began to dwindle while she remained in it. Shamefully, she vaguely wondered if there was something wrong with her, and the young woman had to fight feelings of embarrassment and indignation. Perhaps this was the king’s intention, to manipulate Isabelle into _wanting_ to be chosen.

One of the men, young and evasive, refused to even look at the captives. He kept his gaze trained to the ceiling, or occasionally to the wall, and Isabelle found herself watching him. She was curious, mostly, as to why he so staunchly avoided everyone, but she froze when his dark eyes finally settled on her. He did not react, simply waited until Asmodeus addressed him.

“Raphael,” the king began, and the young man’s head turned to him, “I believe that it is your turn to choose. Unless you would rather avoid this matter again.” His tone spoke of distain and, if Isabelle weren’t mistaken, disgust; but Raphael chose not to argue.

He glanced back at Isabelle, nodding once. “I choose her. The princess.”

“ _Former_ princess,” another member of Asmodeus’s court sneered. “We’re as much as royalty as they are now.” At the man’s statement, the majority of the rest of the men bellowed their agreements.

Lowering her head, Isabelle closed her eyes, willing herself to drown out the noise of the room. She was unable to ignore the king, however, when he called for his army to quiet. “I want to hear none of this, from any of you. The prince and the princess of Idris will be addressed as such.” He smiled, the expression chilling; despite his encouraging words, Isabelle felt no comfort from his protection. “In time, my son and the crown-prince of Idris will be gifting me another heir to the throne. He will have royalty on both halves of his bloodline. No one is to forget that.”

Isabelle kept her eyes shut, but she could hear footsteps coming toward the remaining group of captives. She did not move, even as she heard the people of her kingdom take retreating steps back. Finally opening her eyes, the princess nearly shuddered when she saw Asmodeus standing inches away from her.

“Raphael will keep care of you,” he promised, his voice smooth, but the princess could only glare in response. “If he fails to do so, you will have direct access to my throne room. I can promise the same for your brother.”

A small voice reminded Isabelle not to say anything. Instead, she growled, “He won’t have a chance to, with a son of yours.”

Behind Asmodeus, Raphael raised his eyebrows, and the young woman swore that she caught a ghost of a smile work its way onto its face. It passed as quickly as it appeared, though, and the young man took a tentative step forward before an argument could arise between Isabelle and the king. “Your Highness,” he muttered, “I think the princess has had an eventful day. She must need rest.”

“Yes,” the king said, and he kept his pleasant visage. Isabelle hated him even more now, especially when he dangled a false promise of security in front of her like a piece of meat. “Do remember her treatments. Make the most of them.”

Raphael did not respond, only bobbing his head and holding out a hand for Isabelle to take. Against her best wishes, the young woman relented, loosely taking the offered hand. She could sense the young man tense under her touch, but she refused to acknowledge this fact.

Once they were outside the room, Isabelle withdrew from Raphael. “Don’t touch me,” she warned, and the young man nodded.

“I have no intentions to,” he replied, unfazed.

* * *

 

Magnus opened the door to his chambers, stepping off to the side for Alexander to walk inside. The young prince watched him carefully, as if expecting the warlock to attack, but he kept his reservations to himself and stepped through the doorway.

“I hope this is to your liking,” Magnus began, and he shrugged off his outer coat, dropping the fabric onto his bed. “But I must warn you that I have the second largest room in this castle; if you don’t care for this, then you’d have to cozy up to my father.” He laughed lightly, and the notion that it might be unwise to attempt light-hearted humor struck the older man. He cleared his throat and chanced a look back at Alexander.

He did not look impressed, nor did he look fearful, but he did seem uncertain. Alexander took each step with caution, gaze never leaving his new captor. In a way, Magnus hated the idea that he was suddenly someone’s captor, but he did not even consider trying to restructure the idea for the young man. The warlock knew that, no matter how hard he tried to convince Alexander, he wouldn’t yet believe him. Magnus supposed that, given enough time and gentleness and kindness, he could change the prince’s mind, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if their dynamic never changed.

Sighing softly, Magnus looked around the room in an attempt to find a new topic of conversation. His eyes landed on Alexander’s clothing, inwardly cursing his father for making a point of humiliating the captives with such attire. From just one look at Alexander, it was clear that he came from a more noble background; the young man stood tall, even in such a situation as this, and both his skin and hair kept glow and sheen to them that were quite unlike poorer citizens. Yet, in a loose-fitting gray charcoal-colored tunic and pants, even a perceptive man like Magnus could hardly tell that he was supposed to be a prince.

“Please, let me offer you something more comfortable to wear,” the older man offered, and he smiled encouragingly, not yet daring to make an unwarranted step or gesture toward Alexander. “I have many clothes, and I’m certain that plenty of things would fit you.”

For a few moments, Alexander said nothing, and Magnus began to regret even _looking_ at the former prince in the first place. Eventually, though, the younger man looked down at his outfit and half-shrugged. “If it doesn’t put you out,” he mumbled, without the same level of heat to his words that his sister possessed.

Nodding a bit too enthusiastically, Magnus hurried to his wardrobe. He pulled the knobs, opening the doors, and began to sweep through his many outfits. “Do you have any preferences?” he asked, glancing back at Alexander.

“Dark,” he answered, obviously surprised, but he regained his composure as quickly as he lost it.

As prompted, Magnus disentangled a black tunic from the rest of his clothing. He held it out, examining it. “It’s nice and long. As for the pants…” he muttered. He knew that it would be harder to share pants with the prince, as the younger man was considerably taller than the warlock. “I have to step out for just a moment. Is that alright?”

Alexander blinked, then inclined his head. “You don’t have to worry about pants right now, I’m just—” He cut himself off, and Magnus noticed the way he diverted his gaze, suddenly seeming self-conscious.

“Tired?” Magnus supplied. He understood why the prince suddenly looked so worried, and he smiled lightly. “I am, as well. I’ll let you change.” He turned away from Alexander so that the younger man could have a sense of privacy. Fully intending to stay where he was, Magnus only whipped around when he heard a light gasp from Alexander. “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

Magnus paused, taking a long look at Alexander’s bare skin. He had two pinpricks on either side of his abdomen, the circles red and raised and clearly tender. Frowning, the warlock finally took a tentative step forward. “Those are from the injections, right?” he asked softly, and Alexander sighed.

“Mm. Dorothea said that the side effects should have subsided long ago, and they did, but…now they just hurt, and I…it’s nothing.” He pulled the tunic on and over his head, still unable to hide his discomfort. Alexander did not move, and Magnus suspected that he did not yet feel safe doing so.

“The symptoms come and go the first few injections. Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?” the warlock prompted, and he took Alexander’s extended silence as confirmation. “You can lie down, if you do.” Magnus gestured to his bed, hoping that the prince was agreeable enough to at least do that. Unfortunately for him, Alexander hesitated, and he eyed the older man suspiciously. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll sleep somewhere else.”

Surprised, Alexander glanced over at the bed. It was lush, outfitted with crimson silk sheets and a multitude of pillows, and it was certainly enticing, but he refrained from coming near it. “I doubt it’s advantageous to steal the prince’s bed.”

“It isn’t stealing if it’s offered,” Magnus countered, eyes alight with newfound amusement. Of course, he felt bad for Alexander and how reluctant he was to assert himself, and it was completely understandable for the young man to be cautious. Yet, he also seemed to be the type of person to overthink everything, and the warlock found it humorous that Alexander avoided the mattress as if it were diseased. “This isn’t a test. I want you to have the bed.”

Not breaking eye contact with Magnus, Alexander slowly lowered himself onto the bed. He was sitting on top of it now, but he didn’t look any more relaxed. Magnus sighed good-naturedly. “As much as we can both avoid the topic, you _do_ live here now. It makes sense that you sleep in my bed.”

With no argument, Alexander nodded. “I’m aware. I shouldn’t have even put on a shirt, should I have?” he asked, and Magnus shot him a quizzical look. “You heard your father—Asmodeus wants another heir for Edom,” he said, this time not bothering to hide the disdain in his tone. Magnus nearly flinched at the heat in Alec’s voice, but his expression softened instead.

“I don’t expect you to do anything for me,” he tried to assure the former prince. “I know how unreasonable my father can be; I never asked him to take captives, and I didn’t ask for this. I…will admit that you easily caught my eye, but I’m sure that you’ve heard that many times before.” Magnus almost groaned when Alexander only stared at the bedsheets in response. “Alexander—” The name felt so foreign to his lips, so unused, but the older man found himself enjoying the sound of it. “—I know that you don’t trust me, and I don’t expect you to. And I can’t tell you what my father will say to this, but I won’t touch you, ever, unless you want me to.”

Alexander’s gaze snapped back up at Magnus, and he stared, perhaps in shock, and the warlock cleared his throat in an attempt to prompt the other man to say something. The prince started. “I—thank you.” He did not offer a smile, nor did he look any more pleasant than he had before Magnus made his vow, but his voice was slightly gentler, and Magnus perceived this change as a personal accomplishment.

“Of course,” he said. “You look positively exhausted, though. I should let you get some rest.” Magnus smiled, patting the mattress, before gathering his coat from earlier and beginning to escape his room.

“Wait—” Alexander spoke up, and the warlock froze. Had he forgotten something? He turned his head, confused. The younger man shrugged, sitting up even straighter. “…it _is_ your bed. I can’t ask you to leave it.”

“You can.”

Unsure of how to respond, Alexander simply nodded. “I want to be alone tonight,” he muttered, not unkindly.

Magnus walked toward a door on the other side of his room. “There’s a small corridor in here; the first door leads to the bath, and the second one leads to a smaller room. As you can see, we do have a small kitchen area to make small snacks, but there’s a much larger central kitchen elsewhere in the castle. We have breakfasts and dinners as a court, and I hope you’ll join us, but I’ll leave that option up to you. You can use the bath whenever you want to; you don’t have to ask. For tonight, I’ll be in the room past the bath. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“Alright,” Alexander agreed. To his credit, he did not seem overwhelmed by all the information he was just presented.

Magnus opened the door, turning one more time. “Right. I did have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“I heard your sister call you ‘Alec’ earlier—” Magnus flinched when he saw the younger man’s face darken at the mention of Isabelle, but he began again quickly, “—but I just wanted to know what you would prefer I call you.”

Pausing, Alexander seemed as if he wanted to laugh at such a simple question. He did not, however, and Magnus did not expect him to. “I don’t really mind, but only my parents ever called me ‘Alexander.’”

“But you won’t begrudge me for doing the same?”

Alexander shook his head, finally relaxing slightly. “No, I won’t.”

“Then, Alexander. I’m sure you remember from earlier, but I’m Magnus. I’ll see you in the morning?”

Raising an eyebrow, Alexander answered, “I have nowhere to go. Execution was threatened if I try to escape.”

“…good night, Alexander.”

* * *

 

Jace followed Valentine and his other blond companion—Jonathan—down a number of hallways, finally stopping in front of a large wooden door. Valentine smiled widely, knocking on the door and waiting. “I think you’ll find that you’re an excellent fit, Jace,” the man said, and Jace moved quickly enough to avoid an arm being thrown around his shoulders.

He was nearly shaking with rage, both at his own situation and at his siblings’, but he was most upset with Valentine’s betrayal. He had been such an asset to Idris, such a trusted companion to Robert and Maryse, but he had so easily betrayed them. For what?

Jace doubted he was chosen for breeding purposes, but he reminded himself that Valentine was perverse enough to keep that option available. The young man glared back at Valentine, remaining silent, only moving when the door slowly opened.

A young girl with porcelain skin and long red curls stood in the doorway, and her gaze flicked to Jace. She didn’t say anything and did not move when Jonathan gathered her hands into his own. He bent slightly so that the two were eye-level, and grinned. “Sister, we’ve brought someone for you,” he half-whispered.

Valentine nodded, and he pulled Jonathan away from his sister. “Let’s talk inside, shall we?” he asked, and he let the young woman walk back inside the room before following after her. Jonathan tailed after her, far too eagerly, and Jace walked ahead before Valentine could force him to do so. Once the oldest man closed the door, he turned his attention back to the redhead. “He’s right, Clary—this is Jace. He’s from Idris, as well.” Clary’s expression stayed mostly passive, but she did smile lightly.

Eyes narrowing, Jace studied Clary. He knew Valentine, and he was certain that he had seen Jonathan before this occasion, but he had never met her. Still, Valentine spoke as if they were all from Idris, and the young blond ultimately deduced that the traitor had been hiding this girl’s identity the whole time.

Unaccounted-for citizens were punishable under Idris’s law, but Valentine didn’t seem to have to worry about that detail any longer. The older man looked back at Jace. “Jace, this is my daughter Clarissa. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Jace chose not to react, but Valentine was right; Clary was an entirely pretty young woman, and she stepped about the room lightly and gracefully, as if the sound of a footstep were forbidden. The redhead kept her attention on Jace, turning around frequently and sizing him up, as she readied the room for her father and Jonathan. The other blond hovered around her, taking a cast-iron teapot from Clary as she began to make tea. “I’ll do this, little sister,” he told her. “You carry something lighter.”

Briefly, Clary seemed troubled, or perhaps annoyed, but she nodded mutely and opened a cabinet, reaching up to grab something. As she stretched, Jace planted his vision on the wall so that he could not see her short dress ride up. Vaguely, he wondered why Valentine’s own child had such an impractical outfit, as the young man figured that she should have been dressed in floor-length gowns and adorned in ornate clips, if she were Valentine’s. More than that, Jonathan’s hungry, stolen gazes to his sister were rather disturbing, and Jace had half a mind to punch the other man for being so blatant about his own family.

Valentine walked over to a large pot in the kitchen area, and he lifted the lid, a billow of steam following it. The air smelled of stew now, and Jace’s stomach growled against his wishes. “Jonathan, we’ve been terrible—here we were, wasting our day away, and Clary made us dinner to reward our laziness.”

“How inconsiderate,” Jonathan apologized, and he set the teapot down on a small table.

“It wasn’t a problem,” Clary said, and her tone was light and strong at the same time. She did not wither under her father’s watchful eye, nor did she shudder at her brother’s touches, but Jace caught glimpses of frowns, and he nearly chuckled when the young redhead gently shrugged Jonathan’s hand off her shoulder. “I already ate.”

Nodding, Valentine took a bowl and began to dish himself out a portion of soup. “Very well. You may go to bed, then.” As Clary passed by him, the older man grabbed her arm, pulling her close so that he could press a long kiss to the top of her head. “Good night, Clarissa.”

“Good night.” Clary walked past Jace, and he whipped around so that he could watch her retreating form. The door closed behind her with a resounding beat, and Jace jumped when Valentine loudly cleared his throat.

“Do you want to know why I chose you, Jace?” the man asked, dipping his spoon into his stew. He stared at the young blond even as he ate, and the captive shrunk under his firm gaze.

“You wanted me to assist you,” Jace recalled, following in Valentine’s example and dishing himself out a bowl of stew. He did not eat from it until prompted, and he took a hesitant spoonful. It wasn’t good, and it was mostly bitter, but it was hot and seasoned, and he took a few more bites only to satisfy his growling stomach. “What did you mean by that?” he eventually asked after he swallowed.

Placing his spoon down, Valentine hummed lightly. “You see, Jace, I have a problem. When I was younger, Clarissa and Jonathan’s mother was able to help me with my research. Tragically, she passed away just a few months ago, before I could begin another experiment.” He waited for Jace to nod in understanding, but the blond refused to react. “Naturally, I wanted to ask my daughter to assist me, but…I need two participants.”

“What are you doing?” Jace asked, glaring at Jonathan when the other blond settled himself beside the prisoner.

He seemed almost disturbed, panicked, and quickly said, “Father, I can help. _Please_ let me.”

Ignoring his son, Valentine continued, “My research revolves around children. Until recently, I hoped that my dear Jocelyn could provide me with resources, if needed. Now that she’s gone, I need to rely on Clarissa, and Jonathan—” he shot his son a critical look, “—obviously cannot conceive a child with her.”

“But we can try—”

Jace grimaced at the other blond. “That’s disgusting,” he muttered, then looked back up at Valentine. “So you want me to conceive with her.” He shook his head, partially in disbelief. “No. I’m not touching her.”

Shrugging, Valentine smiled. “I understand your hesitancy, Jace, but you don’t particularly have a choice. Asmodeus gave you to me to do as I wished. _This_ is what I wish. You’re going to go into her bedroom now; she’s already well aware of what I expect from her. After you’re finished, you can sit down for more dinner.” The man nonchalantly returned to his stew, waving his hand to shoo Jace away.

Numbly, Jace stood, and he knew that Jonathan was giving him a hard look, but he ignored the other blond and Valentine. Quietly, he walked toward the door Clary had entered, and he raised a hand to knock on the wood.

“You don’t have to knock,” Valentine assured him, and Jace inwardly cursed the man.

He reluctantly turned the knob, staring up at the wall even as he entered the room. He heard Clary shift on the bed, the mattress letting out a huff of air as she moved. “Father told you,” she breathed, and Jace was once again struck by how gently firm her voice was.

“He did,” Jace nodded, and he finally looked down, at Clary. The redhead was already undressed, bare body on full display for the blond, and he found his eyes traveling down the expanse of skin.

Clary was entirely like porcelain, white and glossy. She tossed her legs over the side of the bed, standing, and Jace frowned as he got a closer look at her. Three pinpricks stood out against her pale skin, a bit faded and pink, and the blond took a tentative step forward. “Valentine’s having you take the treatments, too?” he asked softly, finally resting his gaze on her face.

Finally, the young woman betrayed her stoic expression. Her hand shot to her stomach in a vain attempt to hide the marks, and she slowly nodded, embarrassed. “It’s been three weeks for me,” she explained. “He wanted both of us to be as…fertile as possible.”

Jace blinked, stunned by how clinical Clary spoke about the topic. The redhead eventually pulled her hand away from her abdomen, then crossed the rest of the space that separated her and Jace, mouth caught in the lightest of smiles. She touched the blond’s arm, the gesture feathery and warm, and the young man stepped back. “I don’t want—you don’t have to do this,” he said, refusing to allow himself to worry about the potential consequences of defying Valentine. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, though, and he fought the urge to picture how she would feel and sound and even taste under him.

“We have to,” Clary argued. “If we don’t, he’ll know, and we’ll both be in trouble.” She did not speak erratically, nor did she lose her patience or her composure. Instead, she grabbed Jace’s hand, pulling him toward the bed. Falling back onto the cushions, the young woman gazed back up at the blond, dark lashes fluttering. “It can be quick, and then you won’t have to deal with me for another year. I promise.” Clary began to run Jace’s hand along the curve of her body, resting it against her breast.

“We can say it didn’t work,” Jace muttered lowly, slowly guiding himself to straddle her. He moved his hand away from her and settled it beside her head. With his other hand, Jace ran his thumb across Clary’s full lips, hating himself for relishing in the feeling. “He doesn’t have to know.”

“We could try,” she whispered back, and Clary leaned up so that her face was dangerously close to his. “Then he won’t be mad.” She let herself fall back onto the mattress, and Jace followed after her, capturing her lips in his own before she could change her mind. He kissed her, hungrily, smiling as she responded, her hands gripping onto the fabric of his gray tunic, fingers tangling into the material. Jace’s mouth left Clary’s, traveling down her neck and leaving breathy kisses in his wake; he lifted himself off from her, then allowed his hands to caress soft circles against the young woman’s breasts.

Clary gasped, head tilting back, but she swiftly regained control of herself. Hesitantly, Clary began to work Jace’s tunic off his chest, and he nearly ripped the shirt off and leaned forward. The redhead sat up slightly, grabbing either side of Jace’s face and pulling him flush against her. He breathed heavily, the air between them warming with newfound lust, before kissing her again, arm winding around her back.

Suddenly, Jace broke away, and Clary stopped, fearful that she had done something to make him lose interest. But the blond only left the young woman to pull his pants off, and he was back as quickly as he left, pushing her back against the pillows. Clary’s hair splayed about her, fiery and bright against the stark white sheets, and Jace greedily drank in the sight of her.

She was beautiful, and Jace wanted her near him, against him, knowing him, and he needed to please and tease and touch, and he so desperately wanted it all to be slow, but Clary was already nimbly wrapping her legs around him, bringing him closer and closer until he was tightly pressed against her warm body. “I want this,” she promised.

Against his best wishes, Jace felt himself go both hard and jittery at the sight of her. He moved his hand to the inside of her thigh, barely ghosting the skin, before he coaxed the young woman to spread herself for him. Strangely, he wanted her to stay pure and untouched, and he didn’t want to be the one to ruin her, to crack the porcelain of her skin, even as he continued to silently beg her for more. But Clary consented all the same, a moan tumbling out, high and needy, and Jace began to run his hands along her waist, around her breasts, and he couldn’t get enough satisfaction of the soft skin rolling against his palms.

“Jace—” Clary gasped, and he nearly growled at the sound of his name. She did not move much, only when he prompted her to do so, but he didn’t have the sense to question her.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathed back, not waiting for a response before kissing her again, opening his mouth wider and celebrating a silent victory when she did the same. Clary’s lower lip was between his, and he ran his tongue against her, waiting for her to come after him.

As they kissed, Jace’s hand slipped farther down Clary, between her thighs. He savored the gasps she gave against him, as he continued to touch her, to work his fingers inside her. She was getting warmer, and he harder, and he needed her to feel how much he wanted her in that moment. Slowly, painfully slowly, Jace barely dragged himself across Clary, his member grazing her, and the redhead nodded feverishly, cheeks flushing red.

“You,” she sighed once she pulled her mouth from his, lips dangerously pink and parted, and Jace pressed his hands against the mattress to hold himself up, finally deciding to give into his desires. Above Clary, he readied himself, then moved his length inside her, a low moan working its way out of him. Her squeak of pleasure excited him, and he slowly picked up momentum and rhythm, working in and out of her, the thrusts forceful yet gentle.

Clary’s hands dragged across Jace’s body, along his muscles and across his chest. As Jace continued, she gripped at the bedsheets under her, fingers curling and releasing and curling again. She fell back into silence; the only sounds she made were shy gasps and high moans, and Jace kissed her again, needy and breathless at the same time.

He didn’t know anything about her, save for the orange of her hair and the white of her skin, and he had nothing to say but her name, but Jace felt a spark surge through his body, a deep affection grow for the young woman under him that he had never before felt for any other woman he had pleasured. As Jace fell apart inside her, fully came, then collapsed beside her, sticky and sweaty and lighter, he swore that he loved Clarissa Morgenstern and whatever they had made between them.

Out of breath, he turned to watch her, a tired smile playing on his lips. He didn’t care that Valentine had tricked him, had manipulated him into doing exactly what the man had wanted. He was in love with Clary.

She was staring at the ceiling, mouth open as if waiting for something to say. Her lip quivered, and tears began to roll off her cheeks and past her ears and onto the bed. Jace sat up, suddenly awake, and he cupped Clary’s cheek. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, scared.

Shaking her head, Clary refused to meet his concerned gaze. She whimpered, hand shooting up to cover her hand. Behind it, she whispered a terrified, “What have we done?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander and Magnus begin to talk, and Isabelle finds herself at odds with her brother.

Alec didn’t want to open his eyes, but the small scatterings of light that entered through Magnus’s window forced him to do so. He groaned lightly, rolling over and staring up at the ceiling. He had slept well, actually, too well for him to even feel comfortable in such a place. Fortunately, the nausea from the night before had passed, and the young man felt strangely like himself, before his kingdom had been collapsed and his people enslaved.

Still. Alec sat up, the sheets falling away from him and pooling at his hips. He hated how comfortable Magnus’s bed was, hated how much he was tempted to simply go back to sleep and forget about the rest of the day. But the young man reminded himself that he was expected to go to a group breakfast.

As much as he hated the notion of eating in a large dining hall with his captors, all pretending, or being forced to pretend, that all was well in Edom.

And, Alec thought to himself, perhaps it was. After all, Asmodeus and his army had succeeded in conquering Idris, and they now had both the resources of a kingdom mostly shrouded in darkness (save for the harsh lights currently beaming on Alexander) _and_ the one cascaded in light.

Edom had originally been small, sharp, and dangerous; its only major income had been the spoils of war, and roots and cabbages and nightshade plants. With the assimilation of Idris, however, Edom gained a sea and canals and many more roads and so many other amenities that could easily triple the riches of the kingdom. More than that, Asmodeus had destroyed the monarchy of Idris—its rulers, Robert and Maryse, were privately executed soon after the initial siege, and the youngest royal—

Alexander caught himself glaring at the wall, and he shook his head slightly, as if to try to clear his thoughts. Asmodeus had taken so much from him and was ready to take more. Jace had been carted off with a traitor, and Isabelle was almost assuredly under the jurisdiction of a perverted, vile creature.

And Alec—selfishly, he assumed he fared the worst. Not only had he been subjected to the same sort of captivity as his siblings, but he had been chosen for the prince of Edom, under Asmodeus’s direct orders. To his credit, Magnus hadn’t seemed entirely pleased with the notion himself, but Alexander refused to grant him any more decency than his people had been shown. It wasn’t hard for the former prince to understand why the king of Edom had been so keen on his connection with Magnus. It was true; Alec had been the crown-prince of Idris—he was of noblest blood and heritage. If he were still in Idris, he would have been the fantasy of everyone, the equivalence of perfection.

A quick look at Asmodeus’s diverse kingdom reminded the young man that the king’s intentions had not been to preserve good blood. Instead, it was to humiliate those left of Idris, to remind them that even their pride and joy, their very prince, was at the mercy of the king, and would be directly related to his lineage. Alec was to provide for the future of Edom, to perform treason by continuing the bloodline that had sealed his own fate.

Alexander was a toy now, not a treasure. Yet, Asmodeus’s son had not taken advantage of him as expected. Instead, Magnus had been cordial and polite, and nearly uncomfortable in Alexander’s presence. It was both relieving and infuriating, because the younger man was now so much more on-edge.

Well-aware that he was being lulled into a false sense of security, Alexander finally got out of bed, stretching. He felt dirty and sluggish, though he had slept so well, and he briefly considered going to the bath. Magnus had allowed it, and Alec knew that he would eventually have to concede and use it, but he hated the idea of relenting to anything that Edom offered. Still, his arms were dirty, and his hair was becoming piecey. With a sigh, Alec knew that he had to do something to remedy his current situation.

He walked quietly across the room, opening the door that led to the small corridor. Turning it slowly so that he made little noise, Alexander stepped through, passing by the door that led to the bath. He stood in front of Magnus’s makeshift room, and the young man had to gather himself before opening the door. He only wanted to see if Magnus were there, and Alexander frowned when he caught no sight of the warlock. The bed, which was decidedly more like a large couch, was already made, and the entire room was neat, as if no one had slept there at all. Confused, he took a step back and eyed the door leading to the bath suspiciously.

If Magnus were in there, Alexander would naturally have to face the older man. He would have to think of a reason as to why he had walked in on the warlock bathing, other than the obvious, and Magnus would undoubtedly be able to see a crack in Alexander’s armor, a flush of the cheeks or a stammer to the voice. But if Magnus were _not_ there, Alec would only be afraid of a possibility, and refusing to enter would mean that he were yielding to fear.

Kings did not do such things.

Unable to hesitate any longer, Alec opened the door. He expected to see Magnus, naked and tan, but the room was empty, the tub drained, and the floors dry. Alec blinked, surprised, but he took a tentative step forward, anyway. If the room were empty, and if Magnus were really absent, then it couldn’t hurt Alexander to allow himself a hot bath.

Once he decided what he wanted, Alexander did not hesitate to strip out of his clothes. The air was quite warm, even for the morning, and he did not mind having to wait for the bath to fill. Eventually, the water was hot and steamy enough for the young man to deem it acceptable, and he stepped in, nearly moaning at the sensation. It had been far too long since he had been able to enjoy anything relaxing, Alec thought to himself, and he sank deeper in the tub, closing his eyes and letting out a long, peaceful breath.

Of course, Alexander was still entirely conscious of the bigger issues—that he was a prisoner slated for breeding with the prince of Edom, that his sister and brother were doomed to similar fates, that his kingdom was effectively demolished and his parents and little brother were dead, and that he was now a permanent resident of Asmodeus’ court—but the bath was temporarily calming, enough for the young man to forget just how miserable he was, and how unbearable the rest of his life may be, if only for a short while.

Outside the bath, Magnus strode back into his living area, carrying a large arrangement of clothing with him. Behind him, Ragnor followed, a bit begrudgingly, voicing his belief that the prince of Idris wouldn’t be with Magnus long enough for the man to design a whole new wardrobe for him.

Magnus turned, dark eyes alight with both amusement and irritation. “My dear Ragnor,” he began, carefully dropping the clothes on the bed, “Alexander is living with me now, and I have a feeling that it’ll be permanent, this time. I think that he deserves a few nice outfits, after everything that he’s been through.” He said the last part thoughtfully, glancing down almost guiltily, and Ragnor nearly laughed at his friend’s sympathy.

“I don’t see why you feel responsible for him. You’re not the one who stormed his kingdom. And if you ask me—”

“Oh, but I didn’t—”

“—I think that it’s about time Idris got a taste of the reality we all live.”

Magnus shushed him, picking back up a dark gray tunic and a pair of black pants; they were long and would fit Alexander both comfortably and nicely. The warlock had chosen many outfits of the same style, the colors of the tunics ranging from olive green to burgundy to black. He didn’t want to overwhelm the young man, but he wanted him to have options, as well. Thoughtfully, Magnus put the first outfit away in his wardrobe. “Maybe that’s true,” he admitted, “but not everyone in Idris is the same. Just as I am not my father. They don’t all deserve such harsh treatment.” He turned back to face Ragnor, who simply shrugged.

“I still think you’re going to an exorbitant amount of trouble for a man that only thinks of you as a monster.”

“Of course he does. I saw him, and my father all but gifted me to him with explicit instructions. He blames me for my wandering eye, and I don’t disagree.”

“To be fair, you’re the most kindhearted of the king’s men.”

Smiling lightly, Magnus shrugged. “I like to think so, anyway. But, as it is, Alexander doesn’t yet see me that way. And that is entirely fine with me.” He finished putting the clothes away, closing the wardrobe with a bit of difficulty. He hummed lightly. “I may need a larger wardrobe.”

“And again, I don’t think you should change your furniture to meet his needs. I haven’t even met the man yet, and I can’t say I’m too fond.”

As Ragnor spoke, the door leading to the corridor opened, and Alexander walked through with only a linen cloth wrapped around his waist. The young man failed to notice Magnus and his companion at first, and he closed the door behind him before glancing up. Alec’s eyes went wide, mouth caught open in shock. Magnus straightened slightly, and Ragnor dropped the clothes he was holding.

“I take it back,” the older warlock mumbled. “Keep him.”

Magnus cleared his throat, and Ragnor took the sound as a reminder to leave. He bowed slightly, offering Alexander a smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. I am Ragnor Fell, a tried and true friend of our dearest Magnus. Feel free to call on me whenever your wardrobe is in need of repair.” He curled his fingers in a teasing wave before leaving, and Alexander shot Magnus a confused look.

“Why was he—?”

“Ah, yes!” Magnus smiled, thankful that he was finally able to look away from Alec’s body. This sight was different than the day before; Alec had looked defeated, and he was sick, but he now seemed well-rested and somewhat comfortable, save for the red coloring his cheeks. “I wanted to see Ragnor this morning about getting your wardrobe collection started.”

With the slightest of flairs, Magnus used his magic to throw the wardrobe open, allowing Alexander to get a better look. “For now, I wanted to keep it simple—basic tunics with black pants. I know that you mentioned appreciating the darker colors, and I did keep that in mind. See?” Magnus asked, holding up a black fabric. “Most everything is black, but I did include gray, olive, and—my personal favorite—burgundy.” He smiled, still worried that Alexander was going to denounce the act, or say nothing at all.

Instead, Alexander nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced back over at Magnus, then down at himself. “I’m a bit…”

Magnus nodded quickly. “You are, yes. Allow me to give you some space. Breakfast will be served in about a half an hour, if you’re interested. If not, I can bring you back something, and you can eat here.” The warlock stepped out of his bedroom, leaving Alexander to change by himself.

He would be lying if he claimed to have not been enchanted by the younger man’s appearance. Alexander was stunning, in quite an obvious way—tall, muscled frame with dark hair and soft hazel eyes—and Magnus found himself quite drawn in, despite Alexander’s obvious disdain for him. Not that Alec was cruel, or even unkind, but he spoke shortly and gave Magnus the most unimpressed gazes. It was only slightly degrading, but Magnus was certain that the behavior would eventually wear on him. For now, though, he was content waiting for Alec to refuse to come out for breakfast.

Unexpectedly, Alexander stepped through the door a few minutes later, hair still damp but fully-clothed, and he lifted his eyebrows at Magnus’ confused expression. “Is the olive too jarring?” he asked, fiddling with the long sleeves of the tunic.

Shaking his head quickly, Magnus said, “No, no; I just wasn’t expecting you to want to attend breakfast this morning. I thought that you might still need time to adjust here.”

Alec shrugged then looked down. “I thought it might work against my favor to openly defy both the prince and the king.” He did not bother glancing up to see what Magnus’ reaction would be, only added, “Unless you would rather me stay in here today.”

“That’s not what I said. I just wanted you to be comfortable.”

“Mm,” Alexander noncommittally hummed. He finally looked back up, “Which way do we go?”

Frowning, Magnus led the way without saying another word. Inwardly, he began to agree with Ragnor. Alexander truly did think he was a monster, or at least a heinous man, and he wasn’t inclined to think any differently. And perhaps he never would, but the least Magnus could do was give him a comfortable bed and hot meals.

The dining hall was large, even larger than the one that Idris’ castle had boasted, but Alec chose not to marvel at it. His eyes scanned the area, and he hoped to catch a glimpse of blond hair, or a young woman with a new chip on her shoulder, but hardly anyone was in attendance at the time.

Magnus directed Alexander to the first two seats to the right of the head of the table. The warlock sat down at the closest spot, and Alec settled into the one next to it. The chairs were rather comfortable, but he suddenly felt cold and watched, thought there were few people present. The hall filled in rapidly, though, and the former prince recognized most of the seated as those is Asmodeus’ court from the previous day. Many looked smug, and a few looked annoyed, but all of them possessed a hardened look in their eyes, one that Magnus did not yet have.

Once the door opened a final time, and Asmodeus stepped through to greet his court, Alexander took a final look around the room and realized that, aside from himself, no one else was from Idris. They were all of Edom, and the young man suddenly felt even more self-conscious than before.

“No one else brought their prisoners,” Alec whispered to Magnus, who nearly laughed at the bluntness of the remark.

“You’re not a prisoner,” the warlock reminded him. “Father personally invited everyone, even those from your kingdom. It simply appears that no one else took the offer.”

“Or weren’t allowed,” Alec retorted.

Magnus nodded. “A likely possibility.” When the servants began to distribute the food and drinks, the older man held up his cup for someone to fill with tea. He gestured for Alexander to do the same, and the other man did.

A shorter woman, with large blue eyes and long blonde hair, filled Magnus’ cup first, then grabbed for Alec’s. She paused, and he looked back, nearly dropping the glass in response. “Lydia,” he muttered, and he stood quickly. She took a step back to give him room, allowing herself a relieved smile. Magnus watched, silent, as the two took in the sight of each other.

“Your Highness,” she breathed, smile widening. “You’re alright, I’m so glad.” Lydia took in the sight of her prince but startled when the man next to Alexander cleared his throat. “I have to—” she started, but Alec shook his head.

“Why are you here? Doing this?” he asked. Lydia Branwell came from an excellent family; she was well-learned, an excellent fighter, and an objectively pretty young woman—why had she been delegated to serving tea to a court of hungry men, instead of at least being sectioned off like the majority of Idris.

Lydia filled the other man’s glass, careful not to let any of the liquid splash out. “There aren’t many places for those of us that didn’t pass the screening,” she said, voice low. “But I would rather do this than have you here.” She looked Magnus over, not saying anything else, but nodded before leaving to finish serving the rest of the drinks.

Sighing heavily, Alexander rubbed his hand over his face. Magnus took the opportunity to turn to the younger man so that he could ask about Lydia’s statement. Upon seeing the warlock’s confused expression, Alec’s expression softened somewhat. “You don’t know?” He shot Asmodeus an unsure look, noting that the king’s attention was placed elsewhere. Sighing he muttered, “When we were all…captured, one of the warlocks performed a diagnostic spell on everyone. It was a screening, to see how many of us were suitable for—”

Magnus’s mouth made a small ‘o,’ and he looked back down at his empty plate, guilty once more. “I didn’t know. I just assumed…” he trailed off, and Alexander nodded in response. He didn’t seem angry at the warlock for his ignorance, but he didn’t offer any comfort, either.

“I suppose some people aren’t able to carry children at all, regardless of their gender,” Alexander said, and he glanced up when another servant placed a soft, fresh-smelling chunk of bread onto his plate. A few moments later, another served a halved apple and an unpeeled orange next to it. Upon closer inspection, Alexander was certain that the fruits had to have been from Idris’ groves, as Edom’s fruit industry was rotten and mushy, at best. He picked up the orange, inspecting it, much less hungry than he had been before.

Magnus began to eat one half of his apple. “We also have a few options for the main dish,” he explained, and Alexander inclined his head in understanding as he began to peel his orange. He worked as slowly as possible, so that he could avoid the rest of his food. The bread looked delectable, the apples crisp, and the offered fish meaty and plump, but none of it seemed very appealing to the former prince. He broke off pieces of the orange little by little, still keeping a watch on Magnus out of the corner of his eye. Occasionally, the warlock glanced over, and he offered a small smile. Past that point, the younger man turned his gaze back to the fruit in his hands.

As the court partook in their breakfast, Alexander eventually finished unpeeling his orange and took a small sliver of it and bit down, unsurprised at the juiciness of it. He had to admit that it was delicious, and he didn’t hesitate to rip off another piece of it.

Gesturing to the fruit, Magnus asked, “Is it good?” His tone was pleasant, and Alexander found himself lacking in enough spite to snap back an answer. Instead, he nodded, and the warlock picked up his own off his plate. “I’ll have to try it, then,” he smiled, and Alec returned the gesture before he had the sense to stop himself. Magnus blinked, clearly shocked, but began to peel the orange without saying anything else.

After a few more minutes, Asmodeus tapped his knife against his glass of ale, and he stood, catching the rest of his men’s attentions. Both Alexander and Magnus looked up, the older man visibly shrinking as his father stood to address his court.

“I thank you all, my friends, for joining me as we dine this morning,” the king said, voice loud and smooth, and Alexander fought the urge to roll his eyes. “And we welcome a new seat to our table.” He turned to Alec, and the rest of the men followed suit.

Magnus huffed beside him, and he held up a hand. “We’ve both had a long night, it might be best to save the greetings until a later date—” he said sheepishly, without any sort of conviction or strength to his voice. Still, Alexander could not help but feel slightly validated by the older man’s obvious concern. Now uncomfortable, Magnus reached for his tea, taking a long sip as he waited for his father to respond.

“Normally, I would agree,” Asmodeus countered. “But for the time being, our newest prince is not yet a member of this kingdom. I’m certain he is not comfortable with us, at the moment. With that in mind, I propose a momentous engagement before we finish our meals—a union between Edom and Idris.”

Choking on his drink, Magnus coughed for a few moments before shaking his head. “Doesn’t this all seem a little…soon? Contrived?” he muttered, and Alexander entirely agreed, but he found himself muted by his own surprise.

“On the contrary, Magnus, I think it’s the perfect timing. Wouldn’t Alexander feel far more comfortable if he were an actual citizen of our kingdom? A royal by his own blood and by marriage—truly, this is an exceptionally advantageous opportunity. What do you say?” He ignored his son and focused on Alexander.

The young man shrugged, gently, and put his orange down. Realistically, he knew that he had no choice in the matter. If Asmodeus wanted him and Magnus together, _truly_ together, neither man had an opportunity to deny the request. But Alexander knew what he wanted, was well-aware that, although he was reluctantly content to stay with Magnus, he in no way wanted to be married to the warlock. But if he could, in some way, get in Magnus’s favor, and even more the king’s, the young man felt as if he would have a better chance of hearing from and about his siblings. Alexander wasn’t foolish—he knew that the remaining prisoners of Idris had no hope of escaping from Edom, but there was the possibility of making the best of an impossible situation. He found himself giving a sharp nod, one movement that he felt practically sealed his fate.

Magnus’s eyes widened, and he whipped around to face Alec. “Alexander, you don’t have to agree to this so quickly—” he insisted, but both Asmodeus and Alec refused to listen to him.

“Excellent,” the king smiled. “It is well-known knowledge in Edom that my son is quite fond of throwing parties in this very castle. Would it not be lovely if he were to be the one to plan his own wedding?” He didn’t wait for Magnus to say anything before adding, “Well? Would a month be an adequate amount of time for you, son?”

Unable to argue, the prince of Edom mutely nodded, then gave Alexander a confused look. The other man returned to his orange, expression passive enough to belie his pounding heartbeat. He felt impossibly trapped, only somewhat relieved that he had been able to avoid a conflict by acquiescing to the king’s wishes. Magnus, on the other hand, was shaken by the whole display, and he lowered his head so that he couldn’t catch the unimpressed and sneering looks of the rest of the king’s court.

He only had a month, then, to convince Alexander that he was the lesser of two evils, so that their marriage might be manageable and tolerable.

Magnus finished his orange, returning to his apple, quite sure that he was without an appetite for anything more. He glanced up when someone cleared her throat, and he smiled when he found Catarina staring back at him, mouth curved in a smirk. She stuffed her bread in her mouth, eyes not leaving her friend. It was easy to overlook Catarina, as she was the only woman present in a roomful of men, but Magnus always made sure to keep a careful watch on his friend. Between the two of them, they exchanged a secret conversation, one in which Magnus silently pleaded for help, and Catarina reminded him that he chose this prince and whatever that entailed.

Alexander looked over at Magnus, half-expecting the warlock to get up and leave, or glare at him, or display his anger in some other way. He was grateful that Magnus hadn’t wanted to consent to a wedding, but they simply hadn’t had any other options.

And, if he were able to please the people of Edom enough, Alexander hoped that he might be able to see his siblings. He picked at his food for the remainder of breakfast, refusing to meet Asmodeus in the eye. When Lydia came back to serve more tea, mouth in a dangerously thin line, he couldn’t stand to face her, either. Instead of thanking her, Alec only watched Magnus as the older man began to eat his fish. He hadn’t even noticed, just continued to take small, thoughtful bites, jaw clenching the more he thought about how his father had again entirely manipulated the situation.

Magnus was, as Alexander observed, objectively handsome. His dark eyes were pensive and slightly brooding and his hair was perfectly styled up. His clothes fit him well and tightly, and he wore a number of silver rings on his fingers. Magnus looked like a prince, like he belonged in this kingdom, but his irritated expression mostly confused Alexander. Why had he been so opposed to Asmodeus’ proposal? He had chosen Alec, admitted to being attracted to the young man, yet he had nearly blanched at the thought of marriage.

Against his best wishes, Alexander found himself frustrated. He couldn’t get a clear idea of what kind of man Magnus was—he had chosen a new wardrobe for Alexander and had offered his share of wardrobe space, but he certainly didn’t want to share anything else.

Frowning, Magnus glanced to his side, nearly startling when he noticed that Alexander was staring. He moved his head slightly to try to catch the young man’s attention, but Alec’s brow only furrowed. His extreme focus was endearing, if not unsettling, but Magnus decided to end the moment by loudly smacking his fork against his plate.

Practically jumping, Alexander’s mouth fell open in shock once he realized that he had been noticed. He found nothing to say to excuse himself, but Magnus only smiled encouragingly and kindly, as if he and Alec were the only two people in the dining hall.

“Maybe some fresh air would do both of us some good?” he asked, voice soft.

Alexander nodded, perhaps too quickly.

* * *

 

After breakfast, Magnus made sure to hurry Alexander out before his father could say anything to them. They walked briskly through the hallways, only occasionally stopping so that Magnus could greet one of his associates. Eventually, the two found a comfortable stride, and Alexander cleared his throat in an attempt to grab the warlock’s attention. “Who was that woman in there?” he asked, and Magnus hummed.

“Which one?”

“The only one.”

“Well, I _believe_ that was your friend, Lydia,” Magnus answered, a bit cheeky.

Alec rolled his eyes. “You know who I meant. The woman who was eating with everyone. The one who _isn’t_ a prisoner.” He said the last part with a hint of venom, and Magnus flinched at the tone. Unapologetic, Alec continued, “You two seem to be close. She’s a warlock, right?”

“Yes, because all warlocks know each other,” the older man muttered. When he received a dubious look from Alexander, he shrugged. “Perhaps we do, honestly. But yes, Catarina is a warlock, and she is a well-trusted member of my father’s medical team. She oversees more difficult procedures in the court.” If he were speaking with anyone else, Magnus would have added that Catarina also took charge of monitoring any and all pregnancies that occurred within Edom’s castle, but the warlock assumed that such a subject would have been a sore spot for Alexander.

Nodding, Alexander continued, “Why did you ask me to come to breakfast?”

“I told you—you’re not a prisoner. Not in my room, anyway. Whether it is breakfast, bathing, or sleeping, I want you to be able to choose what you do and when you do it.” Alexander seemed pleased by Magnus’s answer, because he chose not to glare this time. “Now, is it alright if I ask you a question?”

Pausing, Alec muttered a small, “Yes.”

“Why, exactly, did you agree to a wedding?” Magnus leveled the young man a look, and Alexander shot him a confused expression. “I was trying to avoid something like this. _This_ is what my father wants, to humiliate the both of us.” He found the hall he was looking for, turning sharply and not bothering to see if Alexander followed. The footsteps he could hear behind him were answer enough. “Past this corridor are the gardens; I do think you’ll enjoy them.”

Alexander chose to say nothing, almost embarrassed that Magnus had spoken so absolutely of Asmodeus’ intentions. Of course, he had expected such a thing, but the former prince had foolishly believed that he had been more aware of the implications of a marriage than Magnus was.

It was obvious that the warlock was not a stupid man, nor was he blinded by attraction to Alec. He kept his gaze ahead, not at all concerned with the younger man. Soon enough, the pair walked to a small, wooden door, and Magnus waved it open with a flick of his wrist.

The gardens were far browner than Alexander had expected. In Idris, he had been used to vibrant colors and lush grasses and bulbs and fruits dotting nearly every inch of available space. Here, the grass and bushes were short, the trees scarce, with rows of vegetable plants lining the area. Raising an eyebrow, Alexander stopped. “This is impressive?”

“For us,” Magnus said, his voice sharper than usual. “But I suppose it doesn’t hold a candle to what you’re used to, hmm?” He ran a finger along a vine that snaked up the wall, the color brightening somewhat. “We _could_ make them lovelier, but that would only be a pretty false front.”

“Are you trying to imply something? Teach me a lesson?” Alexander asked, folding his arms over his chest. “You can correct me all you want, try to convince me of anything, but I won’t listen, and you won’t change my mind. If you want to know, I agreed to a wedding because I don’t want to put my siblings at any more of a risk than they already are. If I anger your father, step out of line, do you honestly think he’d punish me? He doesn’t have enough time in the world to break me, and he knows that. I was supposed to be a king—who I am, and what I want, doesn’t matter to me. I could lose everything, but as long as I have my people and my family, I’ll be fine. Your father won’t torture me, but he will everyone else.”

Magnus nearly said something, but Alexander suddenly dropped his head, eyes darkening. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say so much.”

“Don’t be.”

* * *

“Good morning.”

Isabelle cracked open an eye, then closed it, when she noticed a baby-faced young man smiling back at her. The young woman turned over, somewhat grateful for the semi-soft mattress. It was far more comfortable than a jail cell, at the very least.

It had been a week since she had been given to Raphael, since he had introduced her to his living quarters and to his makeshift family. In a large and cold room with stone walls lived a small group of pale Edomites like Raphael. When Isabelle was first brought to meet them, the young man had pulled her aside and informed her that his family was unlike most of Asmodeus’s court—their nourishment was not food, but blood, and the king kept them subject by depriving them of heavy supplies. He told her this with the hope that she would be careful, and she determined to be, for nothing but her own sake.

“Long night?” he asked again, and Isabelle finally pulled herself up, leveling Simon a dark look. Of all of Raphael’s members, he was the most tolerable and by far the kindest. And yet, the princess could not allow herself to trust him.

“It was fine,” she answered; swiftly, she got out of the bed and began to smooth out the sheets. “No one has actually woken me up yet,” she observed, eyes not leaving the mattress. “Is there something you needed from me?” Satisfied with her work, Isabelle found her day dress folded on the floor. She picked it up and draped it over her arm.

Simon sighed, hands fidgeting at his sides. “Raphael, he—he just wanted me to let you know that you have another treatment today.” He spoke quickly, almost so much that the young woman had trouble hearing him, but the word _treatment_ gave her enough foresight to know what the day would entail—Dorothea had lied, after the first set of injections; Isabelle found herself sick and shaky and much too emotional the entire next day.

Isabelle still kept her gaze away from Simon. “Now?”

“I think so, yeah. I…can show you the way, if you want. I mean, it would have to be me, or an attendant, or a guard, and I doubt you want them pulling you all along the castle. But if you’re uncomfortable with me, I am sure that Raphael could take you, or he could find someone else. Maybe another woman—”

Sharply, Isabelle said, “You will do.” She stopped, eyes widening at her tone. Although she hated Asmodeus’s kingdom, and by extension Simon, she had been trying to avoid putting herself in contempt with anyone. Now, her safety was in Simon’s hands, and the young woman steeled herself for whatever would come next. Instead of a punishment, however, Simon merely nodded, red coloring his washed-out complexion.

He smiled, and she narrowed her gaze, confused.

“Alright, then. Good. Ah—Raphael said that you could just stay in bed today, after you’re done. You don’t have to change.” The young man gestured to the short dress on her arm, and she dropped it at the light command. Still flustered, Simon continued, “I know that you will probably be sick after everything. Did you still want something to eat?”

“I’m okay,” she muttered back, tone soft and half-defeated. She followed Simon outside the room and into the hallways, weaving through them until they came upon Dorothea’s office. With a small intake of air, Simon turned to the young woman, expression sympathetic.

“I’ll be back in about an hour. But, let me know if you need anything. Raphael wants you to be comfortable.” He said this as sincerely as possible, and the princess rolled her eyes, not saying anything before walking into the room. Without sparing another look at Simon, she shut the door behind her, breath catching in her throat once she glanced up.

Alexander was already lying on one of the tables, Dorothea sitting in a chair beside it, and another man leaning against the wall. Isabelle remembered him from Asmodeus’s throne room; he was the prince of Edom, and his father had given him Alec.

Upon hearing the door open, Alec sat up, gaze softening at the sight of his sister. “Izzy,” he said, voice lighter than she remembered. He did not seem hurt, or even upset, but the young woman still felt a surge of regret for her brother’s predicament. Alec chanced a look at Magnus, who suddenly looked very uncomfortable, and Isabelle’s eyes followed her brother.

“How are you?” she asked, closing the distance between herself and Alexander. Without hesitating, she hugged him, the movement awkward, as he was still on the table. Easily, he slid off and held her close, resting his chin against the top of her head. Isabelle breathed in for a long while, and she frowned once she recognized that Alec no longer smelled like metal and strong soap; now, he carried flowery tones and spiced herbs with him, no doubt from Magnus’s collection of lotions and shampoos.

“I’m fine,” he muttered back, and he patted her back before pulling away. “You look…”

“Terrible,” she finished for him, no humor in her voice. Certainly, she looked vastly different from her brother—he was clean and well-clothed, skin still bright. While Isabelle had hardly found a mirror in the last week, she knew that she was far less kempt than usual. Raphael had managed to sneak her to a public bath late one night, but he had only been able to do so once, for fear of her being found. Likewise, Simon had brought her a wiry brush to tame her hair, but Isabelle had thrown it in frustration when it caught in her hair too many times. In a way, she supposed she had given up on maintaining her appearances.

After all, Isabelle had already been claimed. She did not have to look good for anyone, especially when Raphael refused to touch her and had commanded his family to do the same.

Alexander shook his head. “You do not,” he assured her, and he looked over at Magnus again, who smiled lightly.

“I do have a private bath that you are more than welcome to,” the warlock said, and Isabelle noticed Dorothea’s sideways look. Did the two know each other? Why was Magnus even in the room? Alec hardly looked bothered by the man’s presence, and Isabelle began to feel nauseous by the implications.

“I want _nothing_ from you,” she hissed back, unable to stop herself from the harsh remark. This time, though, she did not regret her anger, only wishing that she had been able to use more than her words to attack Magnus.

An amused smile playing on her features, Dorothea said, “If I’m not interrupting, I have many to attend to today. May we continue?” she asked Alexander, who tore his gaze away from his sister to nod.

“Sorry.”

Magnus still looked a bit shocked from Isabelle’s comment, but he pulled himself together fast enough to stop Alexander from getting back onto the table. “Dot is over-exaggerating; the treatments are interspersed throughout the week so that no one is rushed.”

“I do have time constraints, though,” Dorothea shot back.

Isabelle blinked, surprised with how casually the woman spoke to Magnus. Despite his title and power, Dorothea seemed entirely comfortable around the prince, her demeanor a stark contradiction to how cold and unsettled she had been when the prisoners were first brought into her office. On that note, though, Alec had a more pleasant air about him, and Isabelle vaguely wondered if Magnus were simply able to manipulate the emotions of those around him. The former princess began to fear that she would become more pleasant as she stayed in the room.

Without another argument, Alexander got back onto the table. “Izzy, you shouldn’t watch if it will upset you,” he said gently, and the younger woman shook her head. Although she despised Alec’s behavior, Isabelle recognized that his compliancy was more likely to gain favor with the courts than her open disdain.

In a few minutes, Dorothea injected the shots, and Alexander remained still, clearly remembering how awful he had felt immediately after the first treatment. The warlock woman turned to Isabelle, then gestured to the table. “I can start with you now. Please get up and pull up your dress.”

Automatically, Alec moved his head to the side to grant his sister privacy, and Magnus walked away from his spot at the wall to stand beside the young man. Isabelle fought the urge to lunge at him, but she eventually pulled herself onto the table, slipping her fingers under her dress and pulling it up, past her thighs. She let the fabric bunch against her abdomen, biting onto her lower lip so that she could not say anything else she might later regret.

Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle watched her brother and Magnus. The older man did not touch Alec, but he did sit down in the chair Dorothea had vacated. “How are you?” he asked softly.

Alexander shrugged, repositioning himself to be more comfortable.

“Nothing yet. I assume I’ll feel it in a few minutes, though,” he responded, and closed his eyes for a few moments. He was not necessarily pleasant toward Magnus, and not loving at all, but he did not ignore the man, nor did he attempt to start an argument at each of the warlock’s words. Isabelle envied her brother’s self-control, but she hated it all the same—

He was acting like their father would. Robert Lightwood would have tried every tactic imaginable to preserve himself and his people. Maryse, on the other hand, would have taken her pride to the grave; her only halt had ever been her husband, but at times, the king had buckled to his wife’s strength.

Alexander was behaving like a king, but the motions did not suit him. So often, Isabelle had thought of her brother to be more like Maryse in personality; he was judgmental and powerful, haughty to a fault, but protective and loving. As far as Isabelle knew, her older brother had wanted to rule Idris the way his mother had raised her children—with firm, steady, and gracious hands.

Now, he reminded the young woman too much of her father, but the late king’s weak and aloof personality had only benefited him when he was in power. If he were a prisoner, he would have been a pathetic one, one that could easily blend in with and please his captors.

Perhaps that was the lifestyle Alexander had resigned himself to, but Isabelle refused to corner herself as such. She flinched at the prick of the last needle, not yet daring to move. She could not tear her eyes away from her brother, who had since lost his sense of feeling well and was now working to keep the nausea at bay.

Magnus stood and strode over to Dorothea’s cabinets, rummaging about until he found a vial of a light blue liquid. He ripped the cork out, found a glass, and poured a small amount of the liquid into it. Isabelle’s gaze narrowed, but Alexander chose not to pay him any mind. Making his way back to Alec, the warlock offered the glass. “This should help with the nausea,” he explained as he helped the younger man sit up.

“Thank you,” Alexander said as he took the cup, and Isabelle felt her world shift, suddenly quite dizzy. The sensation did not come from the injections, though. Rather, the young woman watched, enraptured and terrified and appalled, as Alexander willingly took something from his very captor, without first inspecting it, and actually thanked him. The young woman felt quite alone as she observed; Dorothea was preparing more needles for more patients, and Magnus wore a kind smile. He must have been manipulating Alec, then, if the taller man could be so easily swayed in just a week.

She couldn’t watch anymore. Against her body’s wishes, Isabelle pushed herself off the table, managing to catch herself, and was grateful for her legs’ cooperation. She left the room in a hurry, stopping only when a strong hand wrapped around her wrist. Turning slightly, Isabelle shook her head when she caught her brother’s concerned expression.

“Izzy, what are you doing?” he asked softly.

She shook her head again, this time more rapidly, willing her unshed tears to stay at bay. In a moment such as this, she could not let her brother know her heart was breaking for him. Sympathy could not win wars; resolve could.

“This is wrong, Alec, and you _know_ it,” she insisted, breaking her hand away from his. “Can’t you see what they’re making us? You?” With the last word, Isabelle added as much venom as she could muster in her broken, weakened state. She could imagine herself eventually bending to another’s will, even if it were a farce to stay alive. And Jace—he was a soldier by nature and could be persuaded to a stronger cause, and everyone in Idris had known it.

But Alexander—he was the pride of the country, the future of it, and he was thanking his captor for a remedy of which Magnus Bane was the poison.

Alec sighed heavily, and he placed a hand on the wall for support. “Izzy, I haven’t become anything. I am still me, and I am still on your side. You know that.” He turned around, where Dorothea and Magnus were pretending not to listen. “But we may not be the only ones against this. Magnus—he hasn’t done anything.”

“He has!” she screamed back, losing a good portion of her composure. “He’s dressed you up to match him, he’s kept you clean and bathed to _his_ liking. You smell like you belong here, Alec, and you don’t. None of us do.” Isabelle felt unsteady again, but she kept her glare focused on her older brother. “Why won’t you fight back?”

“I can’t, not when—”

“They killed our parents.”

Alexander nodded. “I know, but we don’t have any ground to stand on—”

“They took our people prisoner.”

He ignored her. “Not all of them want—”

“They murdered Max!”

Alec sucked in a breath, and Isabelle let out a broken sob, stepping away from her brother. As she moved back, the young woman misjudged her footing and fell back onto the ground, hip colliding with the stone. The pain surged throughout her body, but she paid it no mind, still refusing Alexander’s help. At this point, Magnus had left Dorothea’s office, and he looked between the two siblings.

“You have to keep your voice down,” Alec muttered, kneeling. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Honestly, Isabelle whispered, “I’ve already lost you.”

Unable to argue, or perhaps too tired to do so, Alexander did not ask for his sister’s permission before pulling her up with him. He examined her for further injuries, and upon finding none, put his hands on her shoulders. “I will be okay,” he promised.

“If it helps, I have offered Alexander the same protection and amenities that I have,” Magnus added, and both Lightwoods leveled him an unimpressed look.

Still, Alexander nodded. “He has. Izzy…I need you to know something, and you have to promise me that you will not overreact, or try to stop anything. I have thought about this, over and over again, and I know that I am making the right choice.” He maintained such a direct eye contact with Isabelle that the young woman was forced to look away.

She stayed silent, listening as her brother drew in a long breath, as if steeling himself.

“Magnus and I are going to be married.”

Isabelle could see her brother continue to speak, could watch as his mouth formed the words, but she could not hear him. Her ears rang, the sound deafening, and she barely had the strength to shake her head, the information far too much for her to bear. She paid him no mind, hardly felt his grip tighten around her, but she did not fight him, either.

As Alexander held her close, Isabelle lifted her head from his shoulder, able only to glare at Magnus, the warlock still offering his sympathetic look. She hated him, deeply and wholly, for what he was doing to her brother; but she hated him more for the pity he gave her, the softness of his dark eyes and the lax frown he sported. The young woman was brought closer, Alexander whispering a soft “You have to trust me,” before pulling away from her.

He stood, and took Isabelle with him. Despite her opinions toward Alec’s current choices, Isabelle could not deny that her brother seemed tall again, almost-powerful, but the former princess feared as if his confidence was ill-placed.

Deciding to approach the Lightwoods, Magnus cleared his throat. Isabelle turned to him, not yet willing to shake Alexander off her. “Who are you living with?” the prince of Edom asked.

“…Raphael and his…clan,” she responded.

The older man suddenly looked quite relieved. “Raphael? You’re in good hands, then.” When Alexander gave him a questioning look, Magnus said, “He’s a good friend of mine; he won’t bother her.” Magnus might have said more, but the appearance of Simon, wide-eyed and confused, stopped him. “Though that Simon—you have to watch him,” he smirked.

“Your Highness,” Simon greeted, giving Isabelle a surprised look. “I just—I came to take the princess back, if that’s alright. Is that alright?” He gulped, and Isabelle rolled her eyes, finally letting go of her brother. She couldn’t look back at Alexander, or she might lose her strength again, but she squared her shoulders and took a step toward Simon.

“I’m ready.”

Despite herself, Isabelle did trust Alec. She hated to entrust her blind faith in anyone, but Alexander was certainly the most deserving of it, and she followed Simon wordlessly, only praying that she would be able to see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you guys think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding date quickly approaches, and Alexander meets new faces within the castle.

Magnus ran a hand over his face, feeling quite old and haggard, as he poured over the piles of fabrics that lay in front of him. Per his father's request, the prince found himself quite overwhelmed by the amount of work the impending wedding required. Although Ragnor had offered his help in designing the wedding suits, the prince took on the responsibility of planning the remainder of the event. He had first wanted to address the decorations and embellishments for the chapel, deciding to inspect swatches of rich and vibrant fabrics.

Unsurprisingly, he recognized that he was not at all interested in determining between purple and scarlet, nor did Magnus even want to begin choosing menu options or arranging flowers. The notion of a wedding was troublesome, at best—although Magnus would have enjoyed getting to know Alexander on a deeper level, he disliked the fact that the union between them was forced.

And Alexander had willingly agreed to it, solely out of fear for his people.

Sighing, the warlock put the fabrics under the table, unsure of how to follow. He knew that Alexander was in the actual bedroom, still sleeping the effects of the fertility treatments away. The young man had fared far better than the last time, hardly felt any sort of weakness after the injections, but the nausea was still difficult to maintain, and Magnus had suggested that Alexander attempt to nap to feel better.

The younger man had offered to assist Magnus in his planning, but Magnus had shaken off the attempt, perhaps because he was still annoyed with the whole matter. Realistically, the prince knew that Alexander did not deserve any more ill treatment from Magnus than he had already received, but the warlock could not yet find the balance between enjoying Alexander's company and dreading their interactions. Now, he faulted himself for ever looking at the young man, for allowing himself to feel the beginnings of attraction.

But there were times, Magnus realized, that the silence between himself and Alexander was almost enjoyable. At meals, the younger man seemed to rely on Magnus for company, choosing to occasionally whisper a pointed comment or a detailed question to him, rather than ignore him completely. Even when Alexander was quiet afterwards, he looked at Magnus at times, and the warlock nearly fooled himself into believing that Alexander did not always despise Magnus's company. On other occasions, however, Magnus knew the other man was very far away, perhaps too distanced to ever make a full connection.

Magnus glanced under the table and decided to gather the fabrics in his arms. He did not feel comfortable leaving a mess, even in his own quarters, and he opened the door to his bedroom, pausing when he caught sight of Alexander.

The young man was turned on his side, completely asleep, brows finally un-furrowed in a genuine state of peace. He did not stir when Magnus entered, only snored softly, and the warlock smiled to himself, somewhat bitterly. He could not explain why he felt so strongly for Alexander, certainly had not been given enough reasons to do so, but Magnus was entranced still, and he silently lamented the fact that his and Alec's most intimate moments were in silence and one-sided wake, rather than anything else.

Walking slowly, as quietly as possible, Magnus made his way throughout the room, eventually finding a cupboard in which to store the fabrics. He set them inside and closed the door, the wood creaking with the motion.

Alec started, and he sat up quickly, eyes already focused on Magnus, somehow alert despite his having been asleep only seconds before. The warlock softly apologized. "I was putting some things away," he explained. "You can go back to sleep."

Alexander shook his head. He got up, stretching a bit, before smoothing out the bedsheets. "I was already awake," he lied.

Magnus decided not to mention it. Instead, he crossed the room to stand beside Alexander, who gave him a sideways look. "How is the planning?" the younger man asked, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not quite able to look Magnus in the eye. He did look down, though, to give the impression of doing so.

Nearly choosing to make up a farce, to attempt to impress Alec, the warlock hesitated before letting out a long, irritated sigh. "While I  _do_ understand why you chose to agree to this, I have found myself quite overwhelmed with all the work. How many people can honestly claim to be able to plan and execute an entire wedding fit for royalty? How long did wedding planners usually have in Idris?"

He regretted asking the question, when Alexander's eyes darkened. Even so, the former prince did not bark out a remark. He shrugged. "We hadn't had any royal weddings since my parents' marriage," he answered. "And I know that that was a very large, very expensive affair. Past that, most weddings did not usually take very long, but they weren't nearly so…extravagant."

Chuckling humorlessly, Magnus nodded. "Yes, well, I suppose I should have known what I was getting myself into. I do love planning parties, but my own wedding? For my best effort, I at least need a year. But," he added, once he caught Alexander's half-worried, half-annoyed expression, "I suppose a month will have to do. Or rather, three weeks."

Once he was pleased with the bed's condition, Alexander went to the closet to pick out a clean tunic. It occurred to the young man that he had gotten quite comfortable in Magnus' bedroom, to the point of walking about freely, even when the warlock was directly addressing him. Even so, he turned his head every few moments so that Magnus knew that he was still paying him mind. He picked out a black shirt, not even bothering to ask for privacy before stripping off his old clothing.

Originally, Alexander was undoubtedly self-conscious, to the degree that he did not want Magnus to see any of his vulnerabilities. But the older man had remained true to his word, never coming close to touching him without warrant, or even beginning to make Alexander feel uncomfortable. Truthfully, Magnus was the most enjoyable part of Edom, the one person that the former prince felt safe enough to informally address. The two were cohabitating well and had finally built a makeshift wall of pillows and cushions on the middle of the bed so that both could sleep on it at night.

This morning, when Magnus accidentally slept late and stayed asleep even after Alexander had woken up, the younger man realized that the barrier had toppled in separate places, and he made no movement to fix it before sliding out of bed.

Isabelle's words had frightened Alexander, truthfully. He knew that he was under no curse of the warlock's design, but the young man began to worry that something about this kingdom forced him to hate Magnus far less than he should have. Realistically, Alec should despise the man, ignore him at every opportunity, and not regard him with a reluctant fondness. Yet, thinking of Magnus was like thinking of hot water—he was jarring, at first, but would do no real damage, and eventually, he was comforting.

And like hot water, the kind that filled a bath tub after a long day of training, Alexander found himself coveting Magnus, in a strange way. He did not necessarily want Magnus, but he enjoyed the company, and he had to admit that Magnus was the closest thing to an ally that Alexander had in this kingdom. If nothing else, he determined to survive the wedding and the marriage, to approach both daunting events with poise and a strength born of forethought.

Whether Magnus liked it or not, Alexander would be agreeable. And perhaps, if he were to be, Isabelle  _was_ losing her brother.

"I'm sorry about the trouble," Alec said, pulling the tunic over his head. He meant what he said, and was almost prideful when Magnus shot him a confused look. "But I appreciate all the effort you've put into this."

"…like I said, I love planning parties," Magnus hurriedly said, half-flustered. He easily regained control of himself, though, a comfortable smile curving onto his face. He flicked his wrist, a long sheet of paper appearing in his hands. Alexander marveled at the ease Magnus used to summon his magic. "Today, I think that I'll figure out our menu and—mm—the seating arrangement for the reception hall."

"Did you…need any help?"

Magnus shook his head, still pleasant. "I don't, but I can work from anywhere; we don't have to be trapped in here all day. Did you want to go somewhere?" he asked, the question surprising Alexander.

Although he had only been with Magnus for more than a week, the two had only been in Magnus' quarters, the dining hall, Dorothea's office, and the gardens together. And Magnus had only accompanied Alexander to Dorothea's so that he could fellowship with his close friend. At times, the warlock had suggested, in a roundabout way, that the two could take a walk or go somewhere else, but he had never been as outright as now.

"I wouldn't know where to go," Alexander replied. He was telling the truth, as Edom's castle seemed more like a maze to the young man than a structure. If not for Magnus leading him to the dining hall every morning, he would have found himself lost more times than he could count.

Nodding thoughtfully, Magnus said, "Well, what would you like to do? What are your hobbies?"

Without hesitating, Alexander foolishly answered, "Archery." He could have smacked himself in frustration, knowing quite well that he would never be allowed to handle any sort of weaponry whilst under captivity. He regretted even saying such a thing, but Magnus only regarded him with that kind look he had been sporting for so long.

"Then, we'll go there," the warlock said, already beginning to open the door. He turned, to make sure that Alexander was still behind him. "We have a large training room, and I'm sure there are plenty of bows and arrows. I would like to see your proficiency." He continued to walk, this time not even bothering to see if Alexander followed.

He was right to assume that the young man would.

* * *

In the training room, Alec examined the plethora of arrows lining a wall of shelves. Magnus had told him to choose as many as he wanted, and to pick a bow that he felt satisfactory. He seemed quite carefree, despite the fact that Alexander would undoubtedly feel a heightened sense of power once he had an actual weapon in his hand. Before the young man could grab anything, though, Magnus off-handedly said, "Don't worry about hitting me; I could stop an arrow and send it back far faster than you could shoot another."

Against his will, Alexander smiled, impressed with the man's confidence. The warlock did not look up from his seat. He simply scribbled down ideas and food options on paper, not at all concerned with the other man's actions.

Once armed, Alexander faced a target a far ways from him, and he loosed an arrow, a surge of relief passing through him as the arrow struck the center of the target. As he continued to aim and shoot, the former prince began to feel like himself again. He moved quickly along the row of targets, each arrow sticking to the target and shaking with the power of the shot. The only time he missed his target was when he glanced back at Magnus as he fired, somehow disappointed that the warlock was paying him no mind.

"I thought you wanted to see my proficiency," Alexander said, his voice loud but level, and Magnus' dark eyes flicked up from his list.

"Hmm? I did," Magnus assured him, now smirking. "Did you want me to watch the same thing over and over?"

Pausing, Alec only frowned and turned again, this time hitting the target. He tried to convince himself that he did not mind if Magnus noticed, but he unconsciously enjoyed the feeling of a pair of eyes carefully watching him. "So," he began again, lowering his bow, "what are we eating at the wedding?"

Magnus hummed, standing. "Since my father has decided to undermine me at every opportunity, I think no expense should be spared for the day." When Alexander only minutely nodded his head, the warlock added, "Goose. There will be goose, and chicken. I like the option of two fowl. Beef, of course. The finest cheeses, and perhaps oysters, if we can get them in. Oh, and all the wine—"

"How much?" Alexander asked.

"More than enough to get everyone satisfactorily intoxicated. Now, custard? Do we both enjoy custard? This is a union, after all, and I want to know what you will absolutely refuse to eat. So, custard?" Alec shrugged, and Magnus made a long dash against the paper. "No, then. Well, dessert is not nearly as important as the feast itself." He smiled, pleased with himself, and sat back down. Alexander was only able to watch in mute shock, not yet used to seeing the older man excited over anything. Usually, Magnus was one of the calmest members of Asmodeus' court, but now he seemed as if he never slowed down.

Finally putting down the bow and arrow, Alexander walked over to where the older man was sitting. "Who all is invited?" he asked.

"All the members of my father's court, naturally—free and captive, combined. In some cases, my father chooses to make events like these a mandatory affair, but I…no, that is not my preference." He deflated, a bit, and Alexander narrowed his gaze. "If I'm being honest, I do not even want to put together all these plans; I wouldn't mind if only you and myself were in attendance." He sighed. "I know this is hard for you, too. Harder than it is for me."

"…I know your father wants to humiliate me. And when everyone from Idris is present, I suppose he will. But—" He stopped himself, before he could get too personal, too vulnerable, not in front of Magnus.

The warlock glanced up. "What?"

Alec took in a small breath, steeling himself to admit that he knew that Magnus was unlike his father and did not want to belittle the younger man, but the door opened, both men turning their heads, the conversation forgotten.

Giving a low groan, Magnus stood again, stepping in front of Alexander almost protectively. He glared at the entrant, a young woman with dark eyes and a long, catlike smirk. She walked forward, hips swaying with her movements, and she stopped in front of the warlock.

"Magnus," she practically purred, lifting a hand and boldly running it along the man's shoulder. She seemed unconcerned with his position of power, not at all shy, and entirely forward. "I had heard that you were given a new toy, but I didn't think that he would be so…tall," she said, running her gaze over Alexander's body. "He's certainly something to look at."

Magnus' glare deepened. "I can't recall asking for your approval, Camille." He took a step forward, and furthered the distance between Alexander and Camille. Instead of letting Magnus protect him, though, Alexander only threw an unimpressed look in the young woman's direction before going to practice his archery again. He convinced himself that he was completely uninterested in whatever hostility lay between the other two, but the irritation lingered even as he fired another arrow.

"I heard you were getting married," Camille said, voice low, as she watched Alexander's form.

"And I heard that you were away on one of my father's conquests," Magnus drawled back, folding the list up and depositing it on his chair. "You didn't come all this way here simply to see me get married, did you?" He crossed his arms over his chest, uncomfortable.

Camille rolled her eyes, a small laugh falling out. "Please don't pride yourself, Magnus. I came to see Raphael and the family. Seeing you was simply collateral."

At Raphael's name, Alexander paused for a moment before straightening his arm. If she were visiting someone like Raphael, one of Asmodeus' blood drinkers, then it was a good chance that she was one, as well. He frowned, somewhat disappointed in Magnus' choice of friends. Friends, perhaps, or lovers.

"Then I suppose you should be going."

"Really? I was just getting comfortable here." She took a step toward Magnus. "We should leave, hmm? You and me, like old times." With a soft feathery touch, Camille petted Magnus' arm, not retreating when he drew away from her. "Don't be that way—"

An arrow whizzed past the two, hitting the wall with such speed that it stuck against it. Camille hissed when it flew too close to her, only letting out an annoyed growl when she turned to face Alec. The young man looked on, undaunted and a bit annoyed, lowering his bow as he leveled her a look.

"Sorry. I missed."

Magnus smiled, hardly managing to suppress a laugh. He did pale slightly, when Camille strode past him to confront the younger man.

"Do you honestly think this is a good idea? A captive slave, attacking a trusted member of Asmodeus' court? I am protected under the king's law." Her angered expression morphed into that of a cocky one. "You have no clue how to behave in this castle, do you? Well, let me explain—"

"Let me," Alexander interrupted, eyes hazel and steely. "I may not have born rights to this kingdom, but I  _am_ promised to the crown-prince of Edom, and his father expects an heir from him, one with my blood, and soon. He chose me to remind my people that he owns Idris just as much as his own kingdom. You may be a member of his court, but he needs me to prove a point. I think  _I_ am the one protected under the king's law."

He walked forward without another word, beginning to leave the training room, and Magnus shot a victorious smile in Camille's direction before following after the young man. He waited until the door was closed before grabbing Alexander's arm. "Where did that come from?" the warlock asked, genuinely curious and a bit delighted. Until a few moments ago, Magnus was completely certain that Alec would have gladly accepted anyone, so long as they were able to vex Magnus. Clearly, he was mistaken, in this regard.

Alexander's jaw was tight, gaze pointed ahead, and Magnus decided to wait until they were back in his quarters before saying anything else. He released the younger man's arm and continued walking. After entering, he sighed heavily, leaning against his door. "That woman is one of my least favorite people," he explained.

Still, Alec said nothing. He sat on the edge of Magnus' bed, appearing to be deep in thought. Under normal circumstances, Magnus would have let the conversation smolder, but he did not. He sat beside Alexander, the younger man only glancing over when he felt the bed shift under the added pressure. Alexander blinked. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Outside, or inside?"

"…" Alec shrugged. "Both."

Magnus smiled good-humoredly. "Just a moment ago, I was telling you that I cannot stand Camille. But when we were outside the training room, I wanted to know what overcame you to say all those things."

Again, Alexander looked far-away. "I don't know what to think anymore," he admitted, tone slow and thoughtful. "About any of this. I should hate you. Every reasonable part of me does, but the unreasonable side…"

"Mm?" Magnus asked, and he tried to keep his feelings from becoming to injured at the previous statement.

"It isn't sure yet."

* * *

Nearly three weeks after he had met Camille, after he had opened just a portion of his feelings to Magnus, Alexander realized that he hadn't said much to the older man since then. If anything, speaking honestly with Magnus had bothered him further, and he had closed off, much to the warlock's confusion and chagrin. Admittedly, Alexander could not even explain why he had suddenly closed himself off as he did, but he strongly suspected that at least part of the reason related to how he was beginning to feel about Magnus.

In certain lights, or in any, Magnus was a beautiful man. He perplexed Alexander with his very existence, because eyes as dark as his should not have had the capability to shine so brightly. And yet, Magnus' did, without the aid of magic. His clothes were always perfect and fit him both snugly and comfortably, yet Alexander never saw the same outfit twice, despite the limited size of their shared wardrobe.

In that respect, Alexander  _did_  suspect magic.

Magnus' body was well-toned and muscled, and he spent most nights channeling his magic, his strong arms tight from the effort. Alexander tried to read while Magnus did that, so that he could stop himself from watching.

At night, the two lay in bed, together yet entirely separated. Some nights, Alec coveted the distance and wished it further. At others, when Magnus went to bed, the ghost of something unspoken dying on his lips, Alexander felt compelled to close the distance between them. He could not let himself, though, not when he was so focused on simply maintaining goodwill for the upcoming wedding.

It was only days away, and Magnus was undoubtedly stressed, but Alexander felt strangely calm. Only on occasion, when he thought of his sister's brokenhearted expression at their last meeting, did his chest begin to tighten and his throat constrict. But he convinced himself to think less of Isabelle now and more of avoiding Magnus as fluidly as he could without raising too much suspicion. Until this point, excuses such as excessive tiredness or general unease had managed him trips to the dining hall, and he fit his bathing times into moments when Magnus was visiting with Ragnor or Catarina.

Even at Magnus' polite requests, Alexander did not accompany the older man to these friendly meetings. He did not yet feel comfortable, nor did he want to waste any of his precious alone time.

When Alexander had to leave to see Dorothea for one more fertility treatment before the wedding, he expertly slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the still-sleeping Magnus. Excessive planning appeared to have taken a toll on him, and he rolled over, dead to the world. Alec slipped a shirt on, turned once more to watch Magnus and fought the fond feeling that passed over him, before closing the door softly behind him.

Walking down the halls, Alec stifled a yawn, but he felt strangely refreshed. He turned a corner, stopping immediately when he caught sight of a small figure at the end of the hall. Eyes narrowing in confusion, he took a few tentative steps forward, clearing his throat. "Hello?" he asked softly, then did it again, louder. Though no one was watching him, Alexander felt the need to appear strong, and he kept walking as if nothing bothered him.

As he got closer, Alec realized that he was coming toward a young child, a little girl with deep, bored-looking brown eyes and a kerchief tied around her neck. She watched him passively as he approached, and Alexander nearly stopped, only because he had little idea how to feel about her presence. "Good morning," he greeted, not unkindly, kneeling down so that he could be eye-level with her. "Are you lost?"

She watched him carefully, eventually shaking her head. She said nothing, though, and Alec felt strangely self-conscious under her passive eye.

He made a small, uncomfortable noise. "That's good. Are…you waiting for someone?" Again, the young man received a shake of the head. Sighing, Alexander found himself unsure of what to say, and he ended up falling into silence along with her. Although she had said that she wasn't lost, he did not feel as if it would be right to leave her alone. Vaguely, Alexander wished his sister were around. She was always incredibly perceptive with others, and she would have been able to sense if this little girl were a gifted member of Edom, or not. He, however, was not as discerning, and he waited to see if she would give herself away.

To his relief, he did not have to wait long. Dorothea rounded a corner, eyes widening. "Madzie," she hissed, voice still soft and hesitant as ever. She took the little girl's hand and began to pull her away. "Catarina left you to me for a  _morning_ , and you ran away—Alexander, you can come with."

Surprised, Alexander started and hurried after the pair, easily catching up and passing them. He opened the door to Dorothea's office, standing aside so that the others could pass before he entered.

A young woman with fiery red hair was already on one of the tables, and she sat up quickly, throwing a blanket over her exposed body as soon as she realized that a man was in the room. Her cheeks were bright now, and Alexander was certain he looked the same, as he could already feel the heat rising to his face. He hadn't meant to be embarrassed so early in the morning, but he supposed that a life in Edom promised such events on a regular basis.

Past that point, he realized he would never be able to look the young woman in the eyes, and he easily pulled himself on the table, waiting for Dorothea to prepare the injections. The warlock walked back over to the redhead, smile uncharacteristically kind. "How're you feeling, Clary?" she asked softly.

Shrugging, Clary said, "Fine, I think. Everything has just been so…jumbled, lately. Did you hear about my father's experiments?" She brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself, appearing quite small.

Dorothea nodded. "I did. Are you sure you are okay? Did he make you do anything?" She squeezed Clary's shoulder.

The redhead paused. "He got someone new, and we…" She stopped herself, taking in a long breath to strengthen her resolve. Alexander stopped from stripping off his shirt to listen. "My father puts something in the food, I—I can't even think straight half the time; I've made him do things, I—"

"None of this is your fault," the older woman said, voice firm.

Clary shook her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut. "My mom tried to warn me before she—" she held back a small whimper. "—she told me to leave, with Luke, but I didn't, and now we're both…what if I get pregnant? What if I start this cycle all over again?" Her head fell as she raised her hands to conceal her tears. Alec felt terrible for this girl, suddenly even more grateful for Magnus' kindness. He clearly hadn't been wrong about all those from Edom.

"Then it wouldn't be your choice. Valentine is making you—"

"Valentine?" Alexander asked, quickly, and both women's heads whipped around to stare at him. He cleared his throat again, not missing the small smile that found its way on Madzie's expression.

Good, then. She enjoyed his discomfort.

Dorothea pursed her lips, shutting down, but Clary was only silent for a few moments before muttering a confused, "Yes?" She became even more perplexed when Alec looked half-relieved. "I'm sorry?"

He held up a hand, to try to diffuse the confusion. "No, no, it's just—you know Jace, then." He said this, not as if he were certain of the fact, but hopefully.

"…I do. How do you know him?" Clary asked.

"He is my brother."

She smiled lightly, but her eyes bespoke of a different emotion. Before she could even begin to try to hide herself, though, Clary gasped out a pathetic sob. "I'm so sorry," she cried, shaking her head. "I didn't ask for any of this, I promise—"

His short-lived relief now felt like a cold grip on his heart. Alexander got off the table, and he found himself right in front of Clary. He hadn't known that Valentine had a daughter, and he certainly hadn't expected her to be as contrite as she was. Even so, he did not feel like comforting her, but he tried to convince himself to stop from interrogating her. She seemed broken-up enough about Jace's predicament, but Alexander was still unnerved by her very presence.

"What is he doing?" he asked evenly, firmly but gently grabbing her face so that she faced him.

Dorothea frowned. "Let go of her. She is  _upset_."

Shooting a glare at the warlock, Alexander said, "And I need to know what is happening to my brother. You can stick a needle in me after I'm done. Clary," he said, turning back to her, "what is Valentine doing to Jace? To…both of you?" He tried to phrase his question more personally, to let the young woman know that he was not forgetting her, even if he did not completely care of her condition.

But, a portion of Alexander, the still-noble part, reminded the young man that, concealed or no, Clary was a citizen of Idris, and it was his duty as the former crown-prince to see to her needs. Although he knew nothing of her, she was still his responsibility.

"Please get back on the table, Alexander," Dorothea said, voice wavering. She seemed deeply upset with Alec's questioning of Clary, but he opted not to adhere to her suggestion. With Magnus' position in the kingdom, he figured that he was somewhat safe from anyone below the older man's station. He stayed with Clary.

While the young woman bit her lip, unsure of what to say, her gaze hardened, and Alexander recognized a hidden strength in those eyes that only women such as Lydia Branwell or Maryse Lightwood herself possessed. It was the ability to remain silent, even when she had so many thoughts running around in her head. Isabelle was not like that; she said whatever she thought and apologized for none of it.

He truly wished Clary were more like his sister.

Realizing that he was not going to get the full truth from her, Alexander relented and downgraded his question. "Is he hurt?" he asked, the statement coming out far softer than he intended. He hadn't meant to sound so scared, but Clary's reaction had awakened the protectiveness he and Jace had always shared for each other. Now, so far apart, the former prince felt useless for his inability to spare his brother from danger.

To her credit, Clary quickly shook her head. "He's well," she added, and Alexander smiled lightly, mostly to encourage her. He did not actually feel happy, as he was now more concerned for his brother than before.

He meant to say more, but the door opened, Valentine standing in the doorway, ever smirking. Alexander glared and rose to his full height—it was all he could do, to maintain his pride, in Dorothea's tiny office. Clary kept the blanket wrapped around her, not budging, and Alec suddenly felt as protective over Clary as he normally would for Jace.

"You could at least give her privacy to change," he said, and Dorothea muttered a soft apology to Valentine before closing the door.

Shocked and wordless, Clary slipped off the table and grabbed her dress. She pulled it over herself, eyes not leaving Alexander. He glanced away, to let her change in peace, and he found himself watching Madzie, who still looked half-amused.

"I can tell him I saw you," Clary quietly said, and Alec nodded quickly. With a ghost of a smile, the redhead exited the room, the door closing behind her with a resounding shut.

As Alec got back on the table, he noticed Dorothea's disappointed expression. "I'm entitled to look out for my family," he told her, and she sighed, grabbing a needle and examining it. He closed his eyes as the first injection came. "What can you tell me about her?"

"That neither she nor Valentine is to be bothered. And that is all." Dorothea administered another shot, and Alexander caught a small hiss from Madzie. He was appreciative for what little sympathy she offered, as it appeared that Dorothea was going to give him none after today. "This is not your normal treatment day; after this week, you won't have to see her."

Alexander opened his eyes again, setting his gaze on the ceiling. One of his hands hung off the table, the other drumming on his chest, and he nearly jumped when he felt a tiny, cold hand grab his free one. Looking down, he saw Madzie holding his hand, and he offered her a tiny smile, managing a calm expression even as the last injection came. "I'm Alec."

"I hate shots," she muttered, and he nodded.

"I do, too."

* * *

The night before the wedding, Magnus turned on his side to face the wall of pillows stacked on the mattress. He could still see Alexander, but he could not tell if the younger man was sleeping. Magnus could not soothe all of his nerves, had too many thoughts running through his head as he waited for the impending marriage, and he hoped that Alexander was still awake. "May I ask you something, Alexander?" he began, speaking to little else than the ceiling, and truthfully did not expect a response. Alec's short hum, tired or not, encouraged him, and the warlock said, "How old are you?"

The other man paused, and Magnus could hear the bed shift, as if he were sitting up now. "Why…twenty-two," he finally said, and paused again. "And you?"

Pleasantly surprised, Magnus answered. "Four hundred and thirty-eight. Thirty-nine in the winter," He smiled and thought again, allowing the silence to become peaceful as the younger man waited for another question. "You seemed to enjoy archery, a few weeks ago. Is that your favorite activity?"

"Yes…but about your age—"

"My father is much older."

"Mm…what do you like to do?"

"Many things. But, I particularly enjoy feeding the cats that come by the gardens."

Alec made a noncommittal noise. "Really?" He actually looked over this time, and Magnus met his glance. "Good to know." He said nothing for a few moments, the silence now deafening enough to make Magnus somewhat nervous. Alexander sighed. "Tell me about your family…please."

Decidedly, the warlock did not enjoy hearing the younger man politely ask for anything, as it did not seem to be in his nature to do so. Despite his sudden unhappiness, an expression in which Alexander was keen enough to notice, Magnus tried to think of an appropriate answer. He was unsure whether he should mention how he personally felt about his father, whether Alexander would agree or bemoan him. "At this point, I am the oldest of my father's children. The rest of my brothers are scattered in other parts of the kingdom. The next eldest would only be called to come here if something fatal were to befall me."

He spoke candidly, and the words flowed easily, even as Alec shot him a confused look. "What I meant was that, I was not originally the oldest, by any means of the word, but I  _became_ the oldest when the brothers before me properly upset my father." He smiled nonchalantly, chuckling when Alexander blinked, wordless. "Do not exaggerate; it is essentially banishment, if banishment involved permanent—" Magnus shrugged, unable to find a tamer word, "—death."

"Of course it is," Alexander mumbled back. "Well, I can safely say that I was the oldest, without any extenuating circumstances." He looked away from Magnus, eyes again becoming unfocused as he stared at the ceiling. He began to talk without prompting, without even bothering to ask if he were permitted to speak so freely. Until this point, however, Magnus had never made a point of forcing Alexander to ask for much of anything, and the younger man seemed quite comfortable to remain silent.

"My mother was strict, but she would never kill one of her own children. She only had four. And my father was much more passive than she was." He smiled lightly at their memory, and Magnus pushed down his feelings of guilt. "The worst they could do was exile someone to…live…banishment." Alexander frowned at his own word choice, the phrasing quite clunky, but said nothing of it. "We have runes," he explained, and pulled on his tunic so that Magnus could catch sight of a black marking on his chest if he looked closely enough. He did, of course. "I'm sure you've noticed already."

Magnus nodded.

"Everyone in Idris had this mark, and the king and queen had more. It signifies their importance over the rest of the kingdom. These marks are special to my people, because they remind us of our lineage. But when someone committed an unforgivable offense, the ruling monarch could decide to have the rune stripped off the person. It was very painful, and it signified the end of his legacy with us.  _That_ was our exile."

Magnus had not yet taken his gaze off Alexander's rune, thinking to himself that the young man should have been marked with more of them. Even if his parents were dead, Alexander had been the rightful king. Now, he had no kingdom to rule, and hardly any population that would follow him if he did. It seemed a great injustice, then, that he was left a reminder of his bloodline without a promise of anything else.

"To lose your identity, it must be awful," Magnus said softly. "I can't imagine anything worse." And he supposed that was true, and he figured that Alexander felt the same. After all, he had been able to maintain his pride for as long as he had because, despite whatever Asmodeus or anyone else from Edom put him through, he was still the prince of Idris, if only in title.

After the wedding, though, would Alexander be able to feel the same?

"I'm not even sure if that is the worst part," the younger man replied thoughtfully. "I think the shame might be. Or maybe it was having to leave home."

"You can just start a new one," Magnus said.

"Yes, but we tended to have certain feelings toward anything that we didn't know, people or country. If you had to leave Idris, you were worth as much as anyone who had never been born there. That wasn't much." He shook his head, glancing back over at Magnus, expression rather unguarded and genuine. "That unreasonable side of me…you remember it—"

"It  _was_ quite troublesome, last I recall."

"It doesn't think that was the right way to think. Not realistically, anyway."

Smiling, Magnus said, "Well, we haven't given you much reason to think any differently."

"You have."

Before Magnus could respond, Alexander continued, "You put a bow and arrow in my hands, knowing full well that you shouldn't have. You took a separate bedroom, just so that I felt more comfortable. Which I didn't," he hastily added, and Magnus snorted despite himself. "You didn't even want this wedding, and you only planned it because I bound you to it."

"I do feel like it came together very well."

"…right." Alexander seemed unimpressed, and Magnus fell silent again. "I know that, despite how many years your father has been ruling, you will eventually become king, even if I am long dead." He fell quiet again, and Magnus silently worried that this was the end of the conversation. But Alec added, "In Idris, we raised children to be like soldiers, from the earliest ages; we groomed them with the best so that they were always ready to give their lives, if it meant honoring the monarchy. And I know that, here, the children aren't always cared for as well, but they're not expected to join an army at a young age. I met a girl named Madzie the other day. Have you ever wondered…"

"Yes?" the older man prodded. He knew Madzie quite well and was glad that Alexander had had the pleasure of meeting the small girl.

"…if there could be a way to find a balance between the two? To make sure that everyone has what they need without requiring some sort of literal blood payment? I know that our wedding will essentially be a political sham, but it's still symbolic; and if nothing else changes, you are going to be the ruler of both Edom  _and_ Idris. You could help to change things, everywhere."

For all his years of hiding his vulnerability, for all the times he put on masks to conceal his true nature, Magnus could only stare at Alexander, awestruck. Upon first encounter, he had been taken by the young man's appearance and his powerful stance despite his circumstances. Now, though, he admired Alec far more for his kindness and the softness of his eyes. No matter which way Alexander felt about Edom, about Asmodeus, and even about Magnus himself, he would not allow himself to think so darkly of everyone in the kingdom. Ruefully, Magnus believed that he had the right, just as many in Edom hated everyone from Alexander's kingdom without much reason.

Perhaps, then, they were not so different, so much as they had different perspectives. Even now, as Magnus chanced taking Alexander's hand in his own, he tried to fight the fear that bubbled up inside him. Maybe Magnus was one of the few in which Alexander was entirely certain of his hatred for, and a rebuke from him now, after such an intimately honest moment, would have hurt more than the tens of times before.

Although Alexander did not reciprocate the motion, he did not stop Magnus. He simply sighed, then shook his head. "Or maybe you can't. I don't know."

"Dismantling hundreds of years of decorum seems to be a lot of work," Magnus began. "It sounds exactly like something you might be interested in, of course, after I saw what you almost did to Camille." He gained a light chuckle from Alec, the sound magical. "And I am normally not one to speak against my father, but I might be persuaded, with your help."

When Alec finally drew his hand away, Magnus closed his own, feeling almost silly for attempting to make the sensation of the other man's hand against his own linger.

"…she held my hand, too. Madzie. She knows nothing about me, and she held my hand as if it were natural to her." Alexander looked over, expression pensive. "And then you did, just now."

"It felt natural," Magnus muttered back.

Alexander said nothing for a long while, and the warlock nearly suspected that he had fallen asleep. He was ready to turn over before he heard a distinct, "Magnus?"

"Yes?"

"If we  _do_ make it to the altar tomorrow, and we do get married, and if all of that happens and we actually start to care about each other, what happens then? Are we both supposed to pretend that this kingdom is fine or that my people don't matter? That your father  _isn't_  in leagues with Valentine? Do we ignore that and do what your father wants, or do we try to do something?"

Magnus pretended to be shocked. "You think my father has unsavory intentions?" He looked over, amused, but Alexander had only given him a slightly alarmed look. "…I was joking. I know that my father's plans for everyone are unfavorable, yours and mine included. But until now, I hadn't seen much reason to fight back." He hummed lightly. "You've unlocked something in me."

Alexander turned his attention back to the ceiling. "I'm supposed to support you from this point." He said nothing else, and Magnus eventually let the conversation drop. He was uncertain what this left their state of relationship as, but he felt less apprehensive about the wedding, if nothing else.

The warlock chose to hold onto the promise of  _if_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you guys think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding is finally here, and Alexander realizes that he needs to begin drawing his lines.

That morning, Alexander woke far less peaceful than he had been the night before. His stomach felt uneasy, his head light, and his ears burning hot. He wanted to go back to sleep, to ignore the entirety of the day, but he forced himself out of bed, anyway. Looking around, he could not find Magnus, and a small part of him vaguely wondered if the warlock had decided to run away, or to somehow weasel his way out of the wedding.

But the door opened slightly, and Magnus slipped through the open space, a suit draped over his arm. Behind him walked Ragnor, also carrying a garment, and Alexander suddenly felt quite underdressed in front of the two men.

Fortunately, the horned man only took a long look at Alec, smile growing. “I cannot possibly fathom how someone can simply _wake up_ with flawless skin. You should see how much work Magnus puts into his face—”

“That will be enough, Ragnor,” Magnus chuckled, eyes burning with unspoken embarrassment. He waved his hand as he said, “Pay him no mind. He has even more pre-wedding jitters than I do. Did you…sleep well?” he asked, the question entirely genuine, and Alexander nodded wordlessly.

Somewhat annoyed by his friend’s evasiveness, Ragnor unceremoniously dropped the suit onto the bed. “That one is yours, dear,” he all but purred, and Alec could not stop himself from smiling lightly at the man’s actions. “And I must say, this is some of my finest work to date.”

“Yes, yes, Ragnor. I will be sure to thank you at the reception,” Magnus said, rolling his eyes.

“I should hope so. I only had a few weeks to perfect the stitches. And, might I say, I put more work into Alexander’s suit than I did yours.” He winked in Alec’s direction, and the younger man glanced away. He almost hated how comfortable he felt; until this point, he had not bonded with any of the members of the court, save for Magnus. It was nice, to be at ease around someone else, but Alexander had to remind himself that he did not want to be attached to any of them.

Save, perhaps, for Magnus.

“I should start getting ready myself,” Ragnor eventually said, after a few silent moments had passed. “I’ll be in the audience, of course. If either of you happen to get too nervous, just look at me.” He did not say this to Magnus, however, only spared the kind words for Alexander. He patted Magnus’ shoulder. “You two make a fine pair,” he added, voice tender. He left, then, and Magnus closed the door behind his friend.

“Too long-winded, mm?” he asked, and Alexander shrugged. Sobering slightly, Magnus frowned and grabbed one of the suits. “I hope you don’t mind, but…your jacket is white and gold. I know it is the usual wedding attire in Idris, but I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

Alexander shook his head. “Thank you. It’s fine.” He grabbed the other outfit. “How long do we have?”

“Two hours.”

Running a hand through his hair, Alexander hummed lightly. He was beginning to feel the nerves, full-force and unrelenting, and he found himself quite unable to look Magnus in the eye. If he did so, he feared he would mention how cruel it was to wait only hours before the ceremony to give Alexander a suit, or to even let him be aware of it. He vaguely wondered if Magnus meant to do that, so that he could not cower from the event, but Alexander settled for believing that the warlock had simply wanted to spare him from his nerves. Magnus would have been wrong, of course, but Alexander half-admired the man’s noble attempt.

The older man glanced over to the other room, unaware of Alec’s newest insecurity. “I think I am going to change now. Is that alright with you?” he asked, voice soft and caring, and Alec nodded, quickly. “You can take a bath, if you want. I doubt we’ll have a moment of silence after this.”

Because Magnus had made an insightful point, Alexander gathered himself and his suit before retreating to the bathroom. His hands shook as he closed the door behind him, and the young man leaned against the wall, allowing the back of his head to gently knock against the stone. He had not expected this series of emotions to plague him. If anything, Alexander had anticipated feeling angry, or disappointed, or even sad at the notion of marrying Asmodeus’ son. He had not prepared for the anxious feeling that bubbled inside him.

Aside from the first morning with Magnus, Alexander had not found need to take excruciatingly hot baths. He had learned that Magnus preferred them practically boiling, but the younger man usually chose a water slightly hotter than lukewarm. In Idris, he had been used to both baths and showers; the latter of which were usually chilled, and after he got older, his baths were few and far between.

But Magnus did not like showers, claiming that a steady stream of water damaged the skin far more than a bath ever could. Once he had explained this fact, Alexander had smiled at Magnus’ convinced expression, and had willingly decided never to bring the topic up again. Even now, he was beginning to prefer baths to the alternative, but he made certain to raise the temperature of the water today.

The former prince now wanted to be nearly burnt by the bath. He sank into the tub, mindful of the time, and rested his arms on the side of the tub, laying his chin on top. Closing his eyes, Alexander allowed himself to drift only for a few brief moments; upon coming back to reality, he began to wash.

He started at the sound of a series of light knocks against the door. “Alexander,” Magnus called, voice still pleasant, if not muffled, “Do you see any green bottles on the counter?”

After a few moments, Alec said, “I see four.”

“Do you see a forest green one?”

“What do you consider ‘forest’?”

Alexander was greeted by a momentary silence. Then, he heard an exasperated sigh, and the door opened, Magnus’ gaze already turned to the ceiling. “Forest green is the dark green. It’s the one you look very nice in,” he smiled, grabbing the bottle of said color. Alec watched him, mouth hung open. The warlock still was not completely dressed, and his hair was far less structured than usual.

“…thank you?” he mumbled back.

Magnus nodded, pocketing the bottle. “Of course…are you _certain_ you’re okay with this?” he asked softly, strangely self-conscious, and Alec sat up quickly, water nearly splashing outside the tub.

“The wedding? It seems a bit late to back out now. Isn’t that why you waited until so late to tell me?” He smiled, leaning forward again, and he watched as Magnus absentmindedly fiddled with the bottle. “What is that, anyway?”

Surprised, Magnus paused before saying, “Yes, the wedding. And no, I did not wait to tell you for that reason. I just wanted to take more of the stress off, but I suppose that that may not have been my best decision. But...I do want to know if this is something you are alright with. I told you when I first met you, I will not force you to do anything, and I meant it, and I mean it now, with this wedding. If you don’t want to get married, we will not. I can find a way out of it, and I will deal with my father, I promise.” He finally glanced over, gaze directed only at the younger man’s face; and he seemed so genuine, his dark, brown eyes so thoughtful, that Alexander rarely felt so sure about anything.

He still smiled, nerves calming, and nodded. He gestured to the bottle. “What is that?” he asked again, and Magnus made a noise of embarrassment.

“This—cologne. It is cologne. I was just—I like the smell. Do you?”

Unsure as to why the older man suddenly seemed so flustered, Alec’s smile disappeared. “Is it your usual…smell?” he asked, scanning the bathroom for the nearest towel. When he saw one close to Magnus, he held out a hand. “Could you—”

“Oh—” Magnus said, and he all but threw the fabric toward the taller man. “I should—let you get ready, shouldn’t I?”

“We might be late if you don’t,” Alec muttered back, cheeks reddening. Though he had trouble admitting it to himself, he somehow felt more naked while acting so uncomfortable in front of Magnus than his actual state of undress. He cleared his throat, and the warlock exited the room far faster than he ever imagined he could.

As he dried himself off and began to dress, Alexander could not stop himself from thinking of Magnus the entire time. He appreciated the man’s gesture, the offer to simply drop pretenses and _leave_ , but Alexander knew that such an idea was not an actual possibility. He sighed and straightened his suit jacket, admiring the crisp whiteness of it. It was bright and somewhat familiar, completely unlike Edom itself, and he nodded in approval of himself.

Once he was pleased with his appearance, he left to knock on Magnus’ door. “Magnus? How are we supposed to do this? Do we leave together? Or, what?” He shuffled a bit uncomfortably on his feet.

Though Magnus did not respond at first, and Alexander began to think that their bathroom encounter had been too personal for the other man’s liking, the door opened, and Magnus stepped out, looking every part a regal prince of Edom. His outfit was black, the fabric shining in the open space. He smiled, now confident, and Alexander distantly wondered if Magnus’ outgoing personality was somehow connected to his clothing.

He did not mention this, though, only opening his arms so that the warlock could get a full look at him. “Was this the idea you were hoping for?” he asked, and Magnus nodded.

“You look wonderful, Alexander,” he honestly answered. “As for the ceremony itself, we have to walk in at slightly separate times. I made certain that Catarina would be nearby, though. Hopefully, you won’t be completely isolated.” As he spoke, he brushed a piece of lint off his jacket. “Do you think you will be okay?”

Not bothering to hide his bemused expression, Alexander said, “I was raised in a castle. I can hold myself together for a ceremony.”

* * *

 

Isabelle observed herself in the mirror, wishing that she had had a bit more rouge for her cheeks and her lips. Still, she looked presentable, at least as far as this wedding was concerned. She did not anticipate this wedding to pleasantly surprise her, but she readied herself, anyway. She examined her long, black gown with an alarmingly-low neckline—a gift by Raphael’s friend Camille—that paired with the gold chain she wore around her neck and the earrings that another of the female blood-drinkers had lent her.

Taking a step back, the young woman turned her head to the side; she seemed pale and entirely washed-out, but Isabelle thought to herself that she still had far more color than any of Raphael’s clan. Had she been in possession of rouge, she might have tried to apply it to her entire face; she would have preferred her face be entirely pink than gray.

The sound of footsteps appeared behind her, and Isabelle quickly turned, relaxing when she saw Simon. “I am almost ready,” she assured him and pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. The young man’s eyes were wide, but a nervous smile spread across his features. Isabelle gave him an inquisitive look, and she lifted her eyebrow in silent question.

“You look beautiful,” he told her, beaming, and she leveled him an unimpressed look. “…let Raphael know when you are ready,” he relented, leaving quickly, and she only allowed her expression to fall once she was sure that he was out of earshot. Isabelle looked back at the mirror, willing herself to remain strong.

Alec had told her to trust him, and she determined to do so, but it was increasingly difficult, given how greedily the rest of the Edomites had absorbed the gossip of a wedding between Magnus and the former prince of Idris. When she had gone to Dorothea’s office earlier in the week, she had heard at least four different servants discussing the future affairs of the prince and his prisoner, and Isabelle had been forced to bite her tongue so that she did not bark out a reprimand.

This entire ceremony was a means for humiliation, but knowing Alexander, Isabelle figured that he would make the most of his situation. Her brother was too stubborn to not have an ulterior motive, but the young woman had a sinking feeling that Alec would also sacrifice his own well-being to make a point. He would have been content to waste away his own youth and happiness if it meant that his people had a better chance of thriving.

And, she knew, Asmodeus was aware of this.

Pleased with herself, she frowned, whipping away from the mirror and beginning to look for Raphael. He had barely spoken to her in the month that she had been with him, entirely far less than Simon had, but the young woman did not particularly mind. She appreciated the quiet of his clan, but Isabelle was also concerned that Raphael was slowly making marks against her and was simply waiting for the right moment to attack.

After all, he had not asked Dorothea to stop her treatments, and he had readily chosen her from the rest of the captives from Idris. At some point, Isabelle knew, she would be expected to make use of the appointments, and the only question she still possessed was whom she would be expected to lie with.

She pushed down the shudder that threatened to overtake her, instead deciding to focus her efforts on supporting her brother today. Even if Alexander did not see her, she wanted him to know that, despite how their decisions may have differed, she trusted him. Her greatest fear, though, was that he would never know that and would eventually allow himself to be manipulated by the likes of King Asmodeus and Magnus Bane, that he might eventually grow to resent her.

“Are you ready?” Raphael asked gruffly, and Isabelle nearly jumped in surprise as she was torn away from her thoughts. She hadn’t heard him coming, not like she had Simon, and she narrowed her gaze and gave a sharp nod in answer. Unfazed, he gestured to the stairs, and she began to walk up them without question, her heels clicking against the stone.

The chapel was large and already beginning to fill with all the members of Asmodeus’ court. As Isabelle looked around, she recognized few people, save for Dorothea, who was seated toward the front, next to a man with a soft burgundy suit and horns that protruded from his forehead. She knew Dorothea and Magnus were friends, and she assumed the other man to be the same.

Behind Raphael’s group walked Camille, who folded one leg over the other as she seated herself. Her mouth was in a disappointed, tight line, and Raphael looked somewhat amused by this fact, though he rarely displayed such satisfaction that the expression was hard to distinguish. Either way, Isabelle tried to ignore both of them as she continued to look around the room.

Valentine strolled in, followed by Jonathan—the smug and eager-to-please son—and a young woman with red, loosely-curled hair. Isabelle felt the angel bubble up within her, knowing that, even as she hated Asmodeus, she despised the man from Idris far more. He had been the one to betray the crown, had proudly held a sword to Robert’s neck as he declared Idris to be the possession of Edom. He had easily watched those from Asmodeus’ court march in and detain the rest of the royal family, and he had laughed, loudly and uninhibited, when he learned that Robert and Maryse were to be executed, and their eldest children taken to be pawned off.

Behind the redheaded girl, though, at a slower pace, was Jace, and Isabelle found herself standing before she could even begin to control herself. She did not notice Raphael’s confused look or Camille’s amused one, nor did she recognize the concerned expression that crossed Simon’s features. All she could see was that her brother was walking, away from her, too far away yet again.

Jace was alive, and he was fine, and Isabelle nearly lost the strength in her legs at the sight of the blond. She breathed out a relieved sigh, the sound shaky, and only then noticed a light, cool hand touch her shoulder.

Simon was watching her, dark eyes gentle, and Isabelle realized that she hated this young man marginally less than she had before. Perhaps, even, he was her favorite from Raphael’s group. “What do you want?” she asked, voice much weaker and softer than she intended, and she had to pull her eyes away from Simon so that she did not show any more vulnerability than she already had.

“You know him,” he muttered, and she nodded in response, mute. “…I know her.” He gestured to the redhead, and his gaze softened even more than before. “I wasn’t sure if she was okay. Were you worried about him?”

“This is not the time to talk about this,” Isabelle reminded him, and she sat back down, pulling her eyes away from Jace. He was staring straight ahead, jaw in a thin line, and she knew that he was never going to notice her unless she screamed at him.

And, she knew as much as Jace would, that Alexander would have been incredibly disappointed in any sort of upset to the day.

Simon sat beside her, still watching her, and Isabelle did not have the resolution to dissuade him. Again, she looked over at Camille, who had her arms folded across her chest. The princess wondered why, if the woman was undoubtedly miserable at this event, she should have come to the wedding in the first place. And as she thought this, Isabelle vaguely worried for her brother, because Camille seemed ready to murder anyone who approached her with a cross word.

Isabelle was unsurprised to reason that Camille must have been one of Magnus’ former lovers. She assumed that he had many.

The ceremony did not conduct itself as one in Idris would have. King Asmodeus stood in the front of the chapel as the officiant, and when the door opened, no one was required to stand, even for the prince of Edom.

Magnus walked alone, stiffly and as if he were biting his lip the whole time, but Isabelle hated him all the same. She could not yet separate this man from the rest of his kingdom, even if he did seem nervous about this ceremony. But Isabelle remained silent and calm, even as her brother had to follow closely behind Magnus. Unlike the warlock, however, Alec seemed confident, steps certain, and Isabelle nearly laughed at his demeanor.

She chanced a look at Jace, whose heart seemed to be melting as he watched his brother, but he did not move. Strangely, Isabelle did not feel the same sort of dread that she had this morning. Somehow, Alexander had encouraged her without saying a single word to her, and she sat up a bit so that she could appear more attentive.

Alexander did not steal his gaze away from Magnus, yet the other man did not seem to be able to keep eye contact. The king watched the pair, smiling lightly, and began to speak once the entire chapel was silent.

The words resonated far too loudly in Isabelle’s head, and she blinked rapidly to refocus herself. Distantly, the young woman heard mentions of _unions_ and _occasions_ and _blessed ones_ , at that, and she drowned him out further, the words melding together as she watched her brother for any signs of distress. But as he stood, he looked calm, terrifyingly so, and Isabelle finally tore her eyes away from him to glance over at Simon.

He was glowering at Valentine, and Valentine watched the king with a light smile playing on his features. Jonathan was looking at his sister licentiously, but her eyes were trained on Jace, and he could not look away from the wall to his right. As Isabelle scanned the room, she realized that not a single person was truly watching the couple. Perhaps they saw Magnus, or perhaps they focused on Alexander—but no one could seem to reconcile the two of them together, as a married pair, and Isabelle vaguely wondered if her brother even noticed.

No one even started when the king of Edom asked, “Have either of you any words to speak today, in front of our esteemed guests?” He turned to his son first.

Magnus did not move, did not even begin to speak, and he shook his head. Isabelle noticed one of the warlocks, the one with the horns, bow his head as if embarrassed for the prince, but he glanced up quickly, in case something would change.

For a moment, silence filled the room—it was uncomfortable and heavy and somehow deafening, so long that Isabelle began to wonder if it would ever stop. Begrudgingly, she wanted Magnus to open his mouth, if only to satisfy the need for sound, any sound.

Before he could, though, Alexander did. His eyes were still on Magnus as he whispered something to the warlock. Magnus’ eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something yet was still mute. Asmodeus paused, ever surprised by the prince of Idris, and he nodded thoughtfully. “And have we any opposed to this union?” he asked loudly, pleased when he was greeted with quiet. “Then by my decree—”

Isabelle dipped her head, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing more than anything that she had the freedom to cover her ears at this moment. She heard the faraway word _husband_ , and she was certain that all justice was gone from the world.

Of course, she did not hate Alec, and she respected Magnus’ silence inasmuch as he appeared to acknowledge his own guilt. In fact, Isabelle realized that she loved her brother even more for his pride in a moment such as this. Easily, he could have fought Magnus on the matter, and the warlock would have been too weak-willed to force him to do anything about it, but Alec did not. Even as Asmodeus bid the two to seal their union with a kiss, Alexander was bravely protecting the remainders of his kingdom.

So long as the king of Edom was happy—and he looked particularly ecstatic, at the moment—those from Idris were safe.

* * *

 

Magnus’ mouth was in a thin line, even as his father addressed him to speak, and Alexander breathed in a small sigh. He felt entirely uncomfortable, in front of Magnus’ people, but he kept his focus solely on the man in front of him. But at Magnus’ deferral, Alexander decided to speak for himself.

He kept his voice low, so that only Magnus and Asmodeus would be able to hear. “As you wound me with one hand, so heal me with the other.”

Once, when he was younger, he had stumbled upon an argument between his parents. He remembered little of it, save the puffiness of Maryse’s dark eyes and the drawn lines on his father’s face. As usual, Maryse had been quietly angry and had saved all her strength for her silence. Alexander had not been sure what they were fighting over, but he knew that his mother was hurting, and he thought it strange that she did not scream at her husband for whatever ached her.

But now, Alexander recognized, Maryse would never have treated her husband like any other man. Above all, above being her spouse, Robert was the king of Idris, and Maryse had treated him as such, even in private. Instead of raising her voice, she had kept her distance, refusing to allow the man to come near her, and had uttered the same words that Alexander did now.

As a child, he had not understood the power of Maryse’s words. He supposed it was a phrase she had heard from a parent before her, and he had not known what it meant when he first heard it. But Robert’s eyes had opened wide, and he had pulled back as if burned; and to Alexander’s recollection, they had never had another fight with the same level of intensity.

Then, Magnus’ eyes widened, and his expression looked so much like Robert’s had that Alexander felt that, although he was still not entirely sure as to the meaning of what he had said, Magnus suddenly seemed to feel differently toward him, because the other man’s face softened, and he nodded nearly imperceptibly.

When Asmodeus requested that the two kiss, Alexander had done so willingly, and he thought that he shocked Magnus even farther by leaning down, pausing only to allow the older man a chance to close the distance. With no means of escape, it seemed as if obligation were the only factor encouraging Magnus. But without verbal complaint, he lifted his head and captured the younger man’s lips in his own.

Relenting too easily, Alec relaxed into the gesture, and he kissed back, only minutely, but it was forceful enough for Magnus to notice.

The kiss was not as he expected—it was soft, and needier than it should have been, and it was longer than Alexander intended it to be; but he did not pull away until Magnus did, and the older man only did when his senses returned to him. He stared at Alec in what seemed to be awe, and Alexander prayed that he did not mirror the look, but he strongly suspected otherwise.

In what seemed to be a whirl of movements and orders, the union was sealed by Asmodeus’ word, and the married pair was granted leave to the dining hall for the reception. Magnus only paused when Ragnor took his friend’s hands in his own, and Ragnor nodded approvingly toward Alec.

“You two were breathtaking. Absolutely stunning,” the older warlock whispered, and Dorothea wore a light smile. Beside her stood Catarina, who seemed sympathetic, even as her lips were pursed in an unimpressed line. She had an arm around Madzie, and the little girl’s neutral expression seemed only slightly more energetic than usual. Still, Alexander offered her an encouraging smile, and she shuffled her feet in response.

After what seemed like hours of a welcome reprieve, Magnus pulled away, and Alexander quickly followed. He naturally took longer strides than Magnus, but the shorter man walked brusquely down the aisle, making sure to avoid eye contact with the rest of the court.

Looking to his left, Alexander caught sight of Isabelle, and he paused, spirits lifting when she granted him a kind expression and a light, hesitant smile. She turned, though, eyes shifting to the other side of the room, and Alexander followed the action, just catching a shock of blond hair before his feet guided him outside the chapel.

“Would you walk slower?” Alexander mumbled as he finally caught up with Magnus. He heard a small sigh come from the other man, and was tempted to roll his eyes in response, but he felt as if such an action would be far more impudent on his wedding day. “I thought it went well—”

Magnus turned, and making sure that no one was behind him, said, “Yes, Alexander, it did. This wedding was perfectly planned, and despite the fact that no one actually wanted to attend it, I thought that it was quite lovely.” He shook his head, seeming quite conflicted, and Alexander decided that he had seen that look cross Magnus many times in the past few hours. Finally, the man said softly, “It went as well as I wanted it to, but it all felt wrong.” He now looked smaller, much more self-conscious than Alec had ever noticed.

Seeing that this conversation could not be quickly resolved, Alexander grabbed Magnus’ hand and led him down a different corridor, into an unoccupied room. “How did you think this was going to feel?” he honestly asked, voice low. “Did you expect it all to be suddenly perfect? That, somehow, we would both forget that this was not a marriage of choice and be happy about this arrangement?”

“I did not expect this to be so difficult,” Magnus said.

While Magnus did not intend to upset the younger man, Alexander found himself unable to withhold his irritation. He had prided himself up to this point at keeping his composure, at containing every angry remark that his mind conjured, but Magnus’ change of personality was beginning to wear thin on him. “You are the one who picked me,” he reminded the warlock, and the other man’s eyes seemed to ignite at the comment.

“I _looked_ at you,” Magnus hissed back. “I looked at you wrong, for just a _moment_ , and my father was the one who picked you.”

Alec nodded. “Yes, and he arranged a political marriage, and we have both gone through with it. I don’t see why you think it is so difficult for you.” He folded his arms across his chest, but took a step back when Magnus gave a laugh of disbelief.

“Why is it that you can’t make up your mind, Alexander? I have been honest with you since our first meeting, and you can’t grant me the same courtesy, even now.”

“What do you mean by that?” Alexander retorted.

Quickly, Magnus answered, “Last night, you thought I was different from everyone else in the kingdom. You were finally opening up, and today? Today, you are yet again fixated on the politics of this wedding. I _know_ that this was not your choice, and it was not mine, but I would be lying to you if I said that this has been an emotionless experience.”

This time, Alexander said nothing. He glanced away, lips in a thin line. Magnus continued, “But the way you acted today—I felt like we were strangers again. I have never hurt you, but you acted as if I already had.” Magnus paused, mulling over his words before he even said them. “I have feelings for you, Alexander, and I need to know if you feel the same.”

It was a pointless request, Alexander thought to himself. It was obvious to everyone and even himself that he had begun to develop feelings for the older man, and he was certain that Magnus knew above all else. Their attraction was clearly mutual, if their first and prolonged kiss had been any indication. But the problem lay in the implications of this attraction, and the young man found himself shrugging. “What did you expect to change, Magnus? I am still your captive.”

“You are not—”

“In your father’s eyes? I am. In _my_ eyes, I am. I was tired last night; I don’t know why I said what I did. There…cannot be anything more than a platonic relationship between us; you know that.” He looked at the ground as he spoke, for it was too hard to look Magnus in the eyes. He hated every word he spoke, did not find himself believing them. Silently, he added, “I have to stop myself from falling for you now, or I could lose sight of everything.”

Magnus blinked, stunned, but he shook his head. “What about all the ideas you had for this kingdom? What about the future? I thought that you were going to support me.”

“And I will, Magnus. I will, but I have to think of my people—”

“And where does that leave me?” Magnus interrupted, uncharacteristically terse. “I want to help them, too, but I want to work with you together.” He took a step forward, so that Alexander could not avert his gaze if he tried. “I want to be your partner, but you have to let me be.”

Alexander swallowed down an answer. He could not tell Magnus that fear was holding him back, that he was so close to truly falling for the warlock that it terrified him. What would he ever be able to say to Isabelle? That she was right, that he had abandoned his kingdom for a tactical marriage? She would never believe that he could willingly love someone from Edom, not under these circumstances.

And, he supposed, he could not, either. The young man wondered if there were something wrong with him for wanting to be near Magnus. He did not curse a future between them; if anything, it seemed plausible and somewhat pleasant, and that realization scared Alec more than another war or even Asmodeus himself ever could.

He was scared of how natural this all felt, of how easy it was for Alexander to imagine himself with Magnus. Waking next to him, eating with him, lying in bed with him—it all sounded pleasant. Even the notion of having a child with a man sounded far more pleasurable if Alexander imagined Magnus as the man. In a different lifetime, then, he might have wanted such a thing, and he might have wholly committed himself to loving Magnus. But in this one, he had an objective to remember; his people had to be his priority.

He could not forget Jace or Izzy, pawned off to Asmodeus’ court for breeding purposes.

He could not forget Clary with the red hair, so shaken by her own father’s cruel experiments that she was brought to tears.

He could not forget Lydia Branwell, a noblewoman sentenced to a life of service simply because she could not bear any children.

As Alexander struggled for the right response, he did not bother to move away from Magnus. And suddenly, the space between them was taunting him again, and he fought the urge to close the distance.

He lost, of course, pulling the older man closer and smashing their lips together. He was needy, he knew, and because this was the first kiss between them not preempted by Magnus’ father, he savored the moment more than he had earlier. Magnus was surprised initially, and he tensed against Alexander before relaxing into the kiss. Even if he did not understand all the younger man’s emotions or motives or decisions, he was not going to refuse this action.

They were pressed together and kissing, and Alexander pulled away before he could get overly comfortable. He stared at Magnus as if in shock, and the warlock gave him a perplexed look. “Oh, yes, this all seems very political,” he muttered, and Alec frowned. “It’s not.”

Slowly, the taller man took a step back, away from the temptation, aware that Magnus’ observation had been right. “What am I doing?” he asked, mostly to himself, and Magnus’ mouth dropped open in shock. “I have to…we have a reception to attend; we should leave—” He turned to walk down the corridor, but Magnus grabbed hold of his arm. “Magnus—”

“You need to calm down.” Magnus’ voice was firm, still kind, but unrelenting. He sighed, then smiled lightly. “You cannot go into a wedding reception looking like that. Now, you don’t hate me. I know that.”

Alexander kept his gaze down; he was certain that he looked scared and wide-eyed and paranoid, but he did not bother to attempt to harden his appearance. “I can’t.”

“…and you know I care about you. Despite the eccentricities of it all.” He chuckled when Alexander all but rolled his eyes.

“So, what do we do with all this?” Unable to lie any more than he already had, Alexander merely watched the warlock for an answer. Not yet willing to admit that he was afraid of falling in love with Magnus but felt as if it were almost inevitable, he waited. He was ready and willing for advice, for a solution to a problem that he was not yet sure he wanted fixed. And when Magnus’ lips curled upward in a teasing, enticing smirk, he felt a surge of a desperate emotion that he could not yet name.

“We don’t go to the reception,” Magnus whispered back, smoothly and with honest conviction.

Suddenly, Alec was not hungry for a large, public meal, nor was he hungry for any meal at all. He nodded, silently and too-eagerly, and let Magnus offer a hand. Without hesitation, he took it and followed the other man down the halls and toward Magnus’ bedroom.

The room was no different, and yet it somehow seemed more dangerous, more mysterious, and—strangely—more alluring. Alexander glanced over at Magnus, taking in the sight of his sharp jawline, the rich dark lines that rimmed his deep eyes, and the high point of his styled hair. Magnus was, essentially, everything contrary to Idris, and he was all the more tempting because of it.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” Magnus said softly as he released Alec’s hand. He sounded so thoughtful and so gentle, and Alexander wholly believed him, even as Magnus watched the other man with that wanting expression of his.

The young man could only nod, again, and he felt entirely foolish for choosing this moment to lose his speech.

Vaguely, Alexander remembered that he had never done anything like this before. In Idris, he had never courted anyone, had never even gotten close to marriage, save for a brief engagement with Lydia, but now—now, he tried to remember if he had ever been sensual in his entire life.

He could not recall such a moment.

Hating himself for asking, and immediately wishing that he could reclaim the words, Alexander mumbled, “How should we…start?” His own voice sounded foreign to him, and Magnus’ good-natured smile felt more like a sneer. He briefly considered simply stripping his clothes off and lying on the bed so that Magnus could do as he wished, but that sounded neither appealing nor practical. Instead, he waited for the older man to say something.

Kindly, patiently, Magnus took a closer step toward Alexander. “May I?” he asked, and Alec answered with another nod. Magnus began to shed his suit jacket, and the other man quickly followed suit, fingers half-fumbling as he watched Magnus strip so easily. When Magnus’ shirt was thrown onto the ground with little care, the rich fabric crinkling together, Alec unintentionally dragged his eyes over the expanse of the older man’s body, and he hated himself for feeling a sense of pride for the fact that Magnus—his now-husband—was so unequivocally attractive.

And he realized, as he let his shirt fall to the floor, that Magnus _was_ unequivocally attractive. Alexander had never meant to think such a thing, but he thought it fact now and could not negotiate any other reality, and he did not wait for Magnus’ prompt to kiss the man, hands cupping Magnus’ face.

This night was going to be a fulfilment of the vows he and Magnus had made toward Asmodeus. This would be the consummation of their union, perhaps the conception of an heir for the throne of Edom. It was Alexander’s duty to be with Magnus now, to let the prince have full control of his body. Surprisingly, though, Alexander could not find it within himself to drag his feet as Magnus gently edged him toward the bed.

They fell back against it, Magnus on top of Alexander, and they stared at each other for a series of moments before Alec leaned up to close the distance between them. He could not yet explain this feeling, this overwhelming sensation of wanting to be near Magnus, and he supposed it was a mixture of fertility treatments and Magnus’ overwhelming and genuine kindness.

But perhaps, he vaguely thought as Magnus began to leave a trail of kisses down Alec’s exposed chest, Magnus himself might have been the stronger deciding factor. He could not yet call this feeling _love_ , and perhaps he never would, but Alexander strongly figured it was something, and he sat up with Magnus as the older man briefly left the bed to remove his pants. Alec did the same, feverishly fast, and lay back against the bed as he waited for Magnus.

“Did you miss me?” Magnus innocently asked, and he laughed when Alec gave a perplexed expression.

“You were gone for a moment,” he answered, bluntly, and he received an even louder chuckle from Magnus. “What?”

“You are _something_ ,” he murmured, finger ghosting across Alec’s cheek, and the younger man hesitantly enjoyed the sensation.

Bending down to kiss Alexander again, Magnus was stopped by the other man’s pensive expression. “What is it?”

“Are you sure you want this?” Alec asked, already steeled. He knew that, eventually, he was going to have to be intimate with Magnus, even with the warlock’s granted permission to evade him. Asmodeus had granted him this union for two purposes—public humiliation, and an heir. As he had already received the first gratification with a large wedding, the king would undoubtedly expect an heir, or the promise of one, by the end of the year or sooner.

As always, Alexander was more determined to keep himself and his people safe than to worry about his own wants. Whether he wanted this with Magnus was irrelevant; it was his responsibility to Edom now, and he determined to satisfy the requirement.

Though, he supposed that there could have been a worse choice than Magnus, particularly when the older man was looking at him so fondly. He had fallen to Alexander’s side, merely to notice and admire him, only occasionally leaning over to brush his lips against Alec’s. Perhaps he was unaware to the taller man’s inner turmoil, the impossible juxtaposition between Magnus’ kindness and Edom’s harsh rule.

But then, of course Magnus did, and he kissed Alexander again, lingering and eventually pulling away. “You don’t want to do this,” he observed, not at all judgmental. Magnus was completely naked, and had been promised a night of sex and then more of it, but he blinked at and watched Alexander as if he were merely admiring him over a private breakfast.

As the warlock rolled over, ready to retrieve his clothes, Alec felt a surge of unexplainable panic, and he took hold of Magnus’ wrist. “I do,” he insisted, pulling Magnus back onto the bed. He did not mean to be forceful, but Magnus’ relaxed form had been easy to coax back.

Surprised, the older man said, “We have time for this, later. It has been a busy day; we can just stay here and avoid everyone else for the night.” He did not move, though, waiting for Alec to decide.

Despite his best wishes, Alexander consented with a heavy sigh. He had been strongly tempted to ask Magnus to simply get the job done, but he had neither the gumption nor heart to be so bold, and he knew within his heart that saying that would have only served to upset Magnus more than intrigue him. He gave the older man a half-hearted smile and turned over, bringing the bedsheets up with him, now cold. He did not want to embarrass himself by searching for his clothing, and he would have felt even worse to have to switch his wedding attire for a more comfortable outfit. For the remainder of the day, then, or at least until Magnus left the room, he resigned himself to sleeping in this way—cold and embarrassed.

Ruefully, he reasoned with himself that he felt more dissatisfied and more humiliated now than he ever would have than if they had continued.

“Alright,” he eventually said, voice soft and low.

“We could still talk,” Magnus offered, perhaps a bit hopefully. Alexander could hear and feel the bed move as Magnus rolled over, and his arm was close enough to lazily sling over Alexander’s form, if he wanted. He did not, but Alexander still nearly shuddered from the closeness of the other man.

Pausing to mull over Magnus’ words, Alexander shook his head. “I am…I’m tired,” he admitted. Just a few moments ago, Alec would have been content to simply lie on the bed while Magnus had his way with him, but the notion seemed entirely foreign to him now, and he knew he sounded weak simply by thinking such a thing.

“So am I.” Alec could hear the smile from Magnus’ voice, and the sound was still so entirely pleasant that he almost reconsidered stopping the conversation. He closed his eyes anyway, willing himself to fall asleep as quickly as possible.

It was strange, and somewhat nice to know that, down the halls, Asmodeus was still waiting for Magnus and Alexander to come into the reception. Perhaps he had wanted to give a speech to congratulate the couple, one that would have undoubtedly served to further alienate Alec from his people and cause him even more misgivings about the union. It was not late, though, and the two could have easily gotten redressed to meet the court, if they had wanted.

But Magnus was still, and while Alexander did not know whether he was awake or asleep did not make a difference to him. The warlock had seemed just as spent from the events of the day as Alexander felt, and he did not feel much like bothering Magnus only to grant the king more gratification. He lay there, in the silence, briefly wondering what Magnus was thinking.

Soon, they would have to be back at this moment and would undoubtedly have to go further. Alexander knew that he would have to entice the older man somehow, have to be able to convince him, that he was either interested in or willing to engage in a physical relationship. If this night were any indication, Magnus might be the unwilling party, because he was, as Alexander had gradually realized, Magnus was a good person.

He was the prince of Edom, yet he did not act cruelly like the rest of the kingdom. And in fact, he was even kinder and more forgiving and understanding than many persons who had once lived in Idris.

With this in mind, Alexander recognized with something akin to shock that he wanted Magnus, and that he would have to be the one to initiate contact between them, as the older man had promised weeks ago that he would not. Alec chose not to act tonight, though; he truly was tired, after this day, and his body began to search for a means to secure a momentary reprieve from mulling over the events of the wedding. Later, he would approach Magnus, and he determined to be incessant in the future.

One moment, Alexander was worrying about how he would be able to later seduce Magnus after their disaster of a wedding night, and the next he fell into a somewhat uncomfortable and restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thanks for keeping up with this story! There may be a small delay on the next chapter, but hopefully not a long one! Let me know what you guys think!

**Author's Note:**

> "Siloam" is an area in Israel--the pool's water is supposedly "sweet and abundant" (Smith). But the fall of its tower symbolized an instance in which innocent individuals suffered and died.


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